


Run (I’m a Natural Disaster)

by canistakahari



Series: Bones-breaks-a-leg-'verse [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Broken Bones, Dating, Developing Relationship, Injury, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romantic Comedy, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones falls in a ditch. Jim helps him out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run (I’m a Natural Disaster)

**Author's Note:**

> This began its life as a prompt that I forced affectingly to give me when I was trying to write things way the hell back in APRIL. Her request was “WRITE ME SOMETHING CUTE AND FLUFFY ABOUT BOYS FALLING IN LOVE, HELEN. ...Bones can fall in a ditch first if necessary,” because apparently I’ve become known for doing mean things to Bones. Well. Five months later, here it is, Amber. Thanks to mackem and seanchaidh for betaing.
> 
> (The working title of this fic in google docs was, unsurprisingly, “Bones falls in a ditch.”)
> 
> I have specific casting in mind for [Christine Chapel](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/january-jones.jpg) (January Jones), [Geoffrey M'Benga](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/l344886120000_2_7360.jpg) (J. August Richards), [Sam Kirk](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/Gabriel-Macht-34.jpg) (Gabriel Macht), and [Aurelan Kirk](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/meghan_markle.jpg) (Meghan Markle). And obvs, we've got [Leonard](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/large_image-1.jpg), [Jim](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/kinopoiskru-Chris-Pine-983082.jpg), [Gaila](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/600full-rachel-nichols.jpg), and [Hikaru](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v424/canis_takahari/eye-candy-john-cho-22.jpg).

***

  
  
The day that Leonard McCoy meets Jim Kirk is the day that he’s reluctantly riding his bike to work because his reliably-unreliable car is in the shop (again), and the pothole he encounters along the route to the hospital is the exact size, depth, and shape to snag his front tire and fling him head over handlebars into a ditch.  
  
Coincidentally, it also happens to be the day Leonard breaks his leg in two places and helplessly humiliates himself in front of his evil, delighted co-workers.  
  
For a moment following the crash, Leonard has absolutely no idea what has happened or why he's suddenly in a ditch with a bike placed inconveniently on top of him. Then his short term memory kick-starts and he realises there's a bike on top of him because he's an  _idiot_.  
  
“Ow,” he says aloud, feeling unaccountably startled. “Fuck.  _Ow_.”  
  
It’s wet. And  _cold_. Wet and cold and embarrassing, and his ankle is caught in the spokes of his mangled back wheel—how the fuck did that happen? How is this his life?—and now that the adrenaline rush is abating and the shock of finding himself hurled into the air has faded, the pain has decided now is as good a time as any to begin.  
  
“Shit,” he whispers, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He fumbles for the cell phone in his coat pocket and finds his hands shaking as he makes the strategic decision not to fucking move an inch more than necessary.  
  
Shit. Shit shit  _shit_.  
  
“Hey! Hey, are you okay, man? Hello?!”  
  
Leonard looks up, blinking mud out of his eyes, and finds a stranger standing on the shoulder of the road next to a battered Mini Cooper, staring at him with vivid blue eyes and a pale face, his forehead wrinkled with concern. He looks wide-eyed and haunted.  
  
“I’m  _fine_ ,” he snaps, because Leonard McCoy is justifiably a dick when he’s lying tangled in a heap in a muddy ditch with what he’s becoming increasingly sure is a broken leg. It feels a lot like when he was ten years old and fell out of the tree in the backyard onto a conveniently-placed cinderblock. Back then, he had just cried until someone had found him and soothed him and kissed the top of his head, but now Leonard wishes he  _could_ cry without having to say a sad goodbye to eighteen years of painstakingly-amassed dignity.   
  
“You don’t look fine,” says the other man uncertainly.  
  
“Oh, I’m just on a spontaneously-planned vacation.” Leonard waves an irritable hand. “You know. In a  _ditch_. My hands are shaking and my leg is broken, so you can make yourself useful and call an ambulance.” He thrusts his cell phone at the other man and tries very hard not to blink because if he does, tears will roll down his cheeks and his badass bastard façade will be shattered.  
  
“That sounds like a good idea. I approve of that idea.” Blue-eyed blond man takes Leonard’s phone and Leonard combats the pain and nausea of his situation by admiring how unfairly good-looking his saviour is. He’s also frustratingly calm and helpful and competent during the call, giving a cohesive description of events, succinct directions, and conveying Leonard’s angry additions to the 911 operator with aplomb.  
  
In the five minutes that they’re waiting for the ambulance, he sits down on the filthy bank of kicked up grass and says, “Hey, I’m Jim. Jim Kirk.”  
  
“I know,” Leonard says tightly, unsuccessfully gritting his teeth against the pain. His eyes feel wet. Leonard has an unreasonable moment of silent panic. Is he visibly crying? This is a terrible and awful and also terrible day. “I heard you introduce yourself on the phone, idiot.”  
  
Jim Kirk gives him a placid smile and Leonard focuses unsteadily on his lips. “I’m going to attribute the uncalled-for insults to the righteous pain you must be in. What’s your name? C’mon, talk to me, man, try to take your mind off it.”  
  
Leonard rolls his eyes and hears familiar sirens in the distance. “Somehow, I think forcing myself to engage in small-talk while my leg cheerfully lights itself on fire from the inside out is really just going to add to my overall suffering.”  
  
Jim snorts a surprised laugh. “You’re kind of a dick, buddy.”  
  
“I know,” says Leonard, blinking hot burning eyes and smothering a soft moan. Shit. Those are definitely tears escaping down his cheeks. “I’m—”  
  
He’s about to apologise, distantly aware that lashing out at the gorgeous man attempting to help him is the very definition of rude dumbfuckery, but then the sirens are drowning everything out and the ambulance has pulled up, Gaila and Hikaru climbing out. Hikaru skirts around the back to get the doors while Gaila makes a beeline for him, red curls bouncing. She checks Leonard over with gentle hands and beams at him comfortingly.  
  
“Aw, Dr. McCoy, fancy meeting you here,” she says, her hands sliding down his trapped leg with deft focus. “Not a good start to the day, huh?”  
  
“Doctor?” echoes Jim, from his spot crouching on the side of the road, watching restlessly. Everyone ignores him.  
  
“It’s the doc?” says Hikaru, peering around at them. His gaze takes in the mangled mess of Leonard’s bike, and an expression of rueful sympathy steals over his face. “How’s the pain?”  
  
“Seven,” says Leonard, biting his lower lip. “Maybe more like an eight. Or a nine. I could use a drink.”  
  
Hikaru snorts and turns to Jim. “You called it in?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Jim, standing up. “Can I help?”  
  
He can help, and he does. He also rides in the ambulance with Leonard.  
  
It’s not allowed, and Leonard loudly berates Gaila and Hikaru for letting a  _stranger_  ride in the ambulance with him, but he’s almost immediately distracted by Gaila putting an IV in the back of his hand and injecting him with something that makes the pain recede into a background ache and detaches his head from his shoulders and sends it up somewhere into the stratosphere.  
  
He should know the name of it, the pain killer and sedative, but to be honest, it’s difficult enough just trying not to drool all over himself when he talks.  
  
“You have pretty eyes,” he slurs at Jim when he manages to make his eyelids obey him and blinks sluggishly at the man sitting next to the stretcher. “All big and blue and.... blue.”  
  
“Really?” says Jim. He thinks Leonard doesn’t see him wink at Gaila, but he totally does. “I hadn’t noticed. You must have a good eye yourself.”  
  
“I got two of them,” snaps Leonard. “I’m not an invalid! I hate you all. What’s your name again? You didn’t have to come along. You weren’t supposed to come along. It’s illegal. You’ll get arrested.”  
  
“What did you give him?” asks Jim. “He sounds like a drunk teenager.”  
  
Gaila just smiles. “How’s the pain now, Doc?”  
  
“Everything is rainbows and nothing hurts,” says Leonard, blinking deliberately.  
  
Hikaru whistles sharply from up in the driver’s seat and Leonard flinches as the sound reverberates inside his head. “He’s gonna kill us tomorrow for seeing him like this.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” murmurs Gaila, her cheeks dimpling as she leans over Leonard and straps him in more securely. She beams down at him, her red hair lit up like a ring of fire. “You are so easy, Dr. McCoy. A little vicodin and you are totally my bitch.”  
  
“You’re pretty too,” murmurs Leonard. “You’re a flaming goddess of sunshine.”  
  
Gaila laughs delightedly. “Can I get that in writing?”  
  
“What about me?” demands Hikaru. “What the hell am I, chopped liver?”  
  
“Your lips,” mumbles Leonard before the tempting pull of semi-consciousness tugs him down into the haze, “look  _really soft,_ Sulu.”  
  


oOo

  
  
When Leonard wakes up, it’s to the vague notion that somewhere along the line, everything in his life went terribly wrong.   
  
Gaila's grinning face peering at him from behind a bouquet of flowers confirms that he's probably done something stupid and appalling while under the influence of some variety of narcotics.   
  
“Hi, sugar,” she says, plunking down the flowers alongside a  _get well soon_  card that looks as though it came from the hospital gift shop and a foil balloon that reads  _HAPPY 2ND BIRTHDAY!!_  Leonard instinctively knows they must be from Christine Chapel up in pediatrics. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Why?” he asks suspiciously.  
  
Gaila clucks her tongue. “Because you broke your leg?” She gestures at his cast and adds, “Can I sign it?”  
  
“No,” he snaps, surly and discomfited. “Someone drew a penis on it already while I was out after surgery, which is completely unfair.”  
  
“Geoff,” she confirms, leaning over his tractioned leg. “Can you even see it from that angle?”  
  
“Just the balls,” he says glumly. “Anyone else would fire you all for unprofessional behaviour."  
  
“But luckily  _you_  secretly love it,” she says smugly.  
  
“Your view of the world is disgustingly sunny,” scowls Leonard. “Go away. Let me convalesce in peace.”  
  
“I just came to tell you that you have a visitor,” she announces, ruffling Leonard's hair and brushing his bangs back from his forehead.  
  
“What?” Leonard's eyebrows furrow. “Who? Hell, Gaila, you didn't tell my mother, did you? She's seventy years old and she's just had a hip replaced, if she's flying out here because one of you told—”  
  
“Relax,” Gaila interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Nobody called your mother. Yet. It's the guy that called the ambulance.”  
  
Leonard blinks. He has a sudden memory of blue eyes and an aggravatingly bright grin. An inexplicable feeling of horror grips him. “What? Why?”  
  
Gaila takes a sharpie out of her uniform pocket and leans over his leg with disturbing intent.   
  
“Hey!” cries Leonard. He reaches out to knock the marker from her hands and when that fails he flops impotently back against the pillow. “Hey, what are you doing? Stop that, why do I have a visitor?”  
  
“He has very blue eyes,” murmurs Gaila distractedly. “Remember that?”  
  
Leonard's heart sinks. “Yes,” he says miserably. “Be a good friend and make him go away.”  
  
“Aw,” says a familiar voice from the doorway. “That makes me feel so loved and accepted.”  
  
Leonard looks up to see the guy— _Jim_ , his name is Jim—standing in the room and he's suddenly starkly conscious of how he must look, how his hair is probably doing that thing it does when he hasn't washed it, how he's unshaven and vulnerable on the hospital bed in his snazzy polka-dot hospital gown, how  _there is a penis drawn on his cast_. Jim is holding a stuffed teddy bear and he's wearing slacks and a nice shirt and a badly-knotted tie, and he looks— _good_. Leonard's mouth goes dry.  
  
He should thank Jim. Which is exactly why when he opens his mouth, “You're a sucker,” is what comes out of it.  
  
Jim blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “What?” he asks, coming forward and setting the bear (wearing coveralls and a little cap and holding a sign that says “Get Well Soon!”) beside Gaila's flowers.   
  
“The gift shop,” explains Leonard lamely. “They charge an arm and a leg.”  
  
“Oh, I see,” says Jim, grinning now. “You’re just looking out for me.”  
  
Gaila vacates her seat and gestures at Jim to take it and he sinks down awkwardly as she makes her escape, shooting Leonard a wink over her shoulder and ignoring the look of pathetic desperation on his face into which Leonard is trying to inject adequate amounts of  _please don't leave or I'll hate you forever_.  
  
“Yeah,” says Leonard dumbly, clutching tightly at the bed sheets. “Clearly.”  
  
“Right,” says Jim. “So, can I sign your cast?”  
  
“Oh god,” says Leonard. “Oh god, no. Please don't—”  
  
It's no use. A marker appears in Jim's hand as if by magic and he leans over Leonard's leg, his eyebrows hitching up when he notices the messages and lewd drawing left by Leonard's appalling colleagues. “Aw,” says Jim, uncapping his marker. “That's what I was going to draw.”  
  
“I can't say enough things about imagination and the lack thereof,” snaps Leonard, unsettled. “People are going to see it, could you please just—”  
  
“I suppose a vagina is out of the question,” mumbles Jim, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he scratches something that Leonard can't see onto the cast.   
  
“Oh god,” repeats Leonard. “I will hunt you down and break your leg in return. I'm absolutely not above inflicting harm.”  
  
Jim finishes what he's doing and gets to his feet. “No worries,” he says. “I can run faster than you. How long are you trapped by plaster? I'll clear my schedule.”  
  
“I don't know,” replies Leonard, scowling. “Whatever the answer is, it doesn't matter. Too long.”  
  
“Well, I'm glad you're okay,” says Jim. He slides his hands into his pockets and gives Leonard another stupid blinding gorgeous grin. “See you around.”  
  
“’Bye,” says Leonard. Jim is just out the door when he remembers to call, “Oh, uh, thank you!”  
  
Jim's head pops back into the room. “For what?”  
  
Leonard flushes warmly. “Calling the ambulance. Sitting with me. But mostly coming in today. You didn't have to. I, uh, I appreciate it, kid.”  
  
“Forget it,” says Jim, with another grin. “Take care, Bones.”  
  
He disappears, leaving Leonard alone with his fluttering heart and hot cheeks. When an indeterminate length of time has passed, Leonard presses the call button.   
  
Because Leonard's manner of luck falls strictly into the  _bad_ category, Christine is the nurse that appears.   
  
“What are you doing down here?” he demands. “Shouldn't you be playing Pokémon with that little girl upstairs?”  
  
“I missed your smiling face,” she drawls, rolling her eyes as she comes inside and crosses her arms. “Ben Warner puked on me. The machine on pediatrics was out of clean scrubs so I had to deign to come down here. What's up? Need a hit?”  
  
Leonard balks. “No. Uh. It's nothing. You can go.”  
  
“Do you need to pee?” asks Christine, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “You know better than to press the call button for funsies, McCoy. What's wrong?”  
  
“I may have abused the privilege a bit,” he admits, before sighing and pointing to his cast. “Can you tell me what's on there? Besides the cock Geoff drew and whatever it is Gaila has done.”  
  
Christine rolls her eyes again and makes a wry face. “You're a terrible person.” But she sits down and scoots her chair forward, before saying, “Gaila wrote ‘Get well soon, from your flaming goddess of sunshine,’ by the way. And she signed it with love and kisses.”  
  
“Expected,” says Leonard impatiently. “The other thing?”  
  
Christine’s smirk turns into a wide, shit-eating grin. “‘You have pretty eyes too, Bones. Jim Kirk.’ And there's a phone number,” adds Chapel. “Who's Jim? Why is he hitting on you via cast?”  
  
Leonard slowly pulls the pillow over his face and tries to smother himself. “Oh god,” he mumbles. “Fuck my life.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Leonard is rudely startled out of sleep by something vibrating to life on his chest. For one irrational, alarmed moment, he thinks he’s still back at the hospital and his heart has stopped and this is what it feels like to get shocked back to life. And then his cell phone falls to the floor and the buzzing stops and Leonard opens bleary eyes to the sight of a darkened living room and the glow of the television.   
  
“Aw,” he mumbles, glaring down at where the phone has fallen to the carpet, screen lit up to announce a new text message. His leg is propped up on the arm of the couch by a pillow, and reaching out brings the phone no closer to his outstretched hand.   
  
It takes him a good ten minutes to retrieve his phone once he sets his mind to moving. By the time he’s sitting on the carpet, legs spread, right one twinging with pain, he’s sweating and breathing rapidly, muttering unkindly under his breath about how this  _better be important_.   
  
When he got home from the hospital he’d sent a mass text out to everyone in his contact list that went something along the lines of, “DO NOT CONTACT ME UNLESS IT’S A DESPERATE EMERGENCY OR I WILL SKIN AND MOUNT YOU IN MY STUDY.”   
  
He doesn’t have a study.   
  
Still, the sentiment stands. Basically, the sky better be falling or the hospital has to be actually on fire, because his body is still sleep-drugged and actual-drugged and he’s been told to keep the moving around to a minimum for the next 48 hours because he  _did_  have surgery and there are pins in place and the break was not a straightforward one—  
  
So if it’s one of those texts telling him he’s won money or a free boat ride he might just cry.  
  
It’s from Christine, instead.  _Call him yet?_  
  
He doesn’t know of the universe in which this would qualify as an emergency. The one Christine lives in, apparently, because she has adopted Jim Kirk leaving Leonard his phone number as a personal quest to get Leonard laid.   
  
“Take this,” she’d said gravely when he had been released from the hospital, handing him a box of condoms and a travel-sized tube of lubricant, “It’s dangerous to go alone.”  
  
“What?” he’d snapped, glaring down at the box. Ribbed. Watermelon-flavoured. “When I said watermelon was my favourite artificial flavour, I didn’t think it would come back to haunt me. Also, jumbo-sized? Really?”  
  
Chapel ruffled his hair. “I know you’re a slut for the cock, McCoy.”  
  
“This is an upsetting conversation. Can it end now?”  
  
Her response was to close the taxi door in his face.   
  
 _I hate you_ , he texts back furiously.  _What part of ‘emergency’ don’t you understand?_  
  
 _Len, call him. What have you got to lose?_  
  
 _My dignity?_  
  
 _Oh, honey, do you actually still think you’ve got any of that left?_  
  
 _Is this what having friends is supposed to be like?_  
  
 _Call him or I’ll do it for you._  
  
Leonard abruptly goes cold from head to toe.  _Oh god. You wouldn’t._  
  
 _Try me._  
  
Leonard has learned in deep and unforgiving detail exactly how not to test Christine Chapel.  
  
 _Okay, okay. Leave me alone. Don’t you have anything better to do?_  
  
 _My satellite is out and you’re better than Vampire Diaries anyway._  
  
Leonard snorts. Then he stares down at his cast, where Jim Kirk’s number still resides. If he sits down on the couch and bends over his knees, he can read it.   
  
Would it be ridiculous to text him? Are there rules about this kind of thing? Leonard likes cell phones because he hates talking to people and when the world of text messaging had dawned before him, shiny and new and restricted to just 160 characters, he had welcomed it to his bosom like the asocial dick that he was. His phone usually goes straight to voicemail. It’s why he still owns and uses a pager; otherwise the hospital could never get a hold of him.   
  
Text messages are distant. Text messages are safe.   
  
His phone rings suddenly, startling the absolute hell out of him. For once, it’s not set to go to voicemail, and it’s playing  _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ , which Geoff had put on and Leonard didn’t know how to change.   
  
He doesn’t recognize the number on the screen.  
  
Leonard very briefly debates letting it ring and pretending he was sleeping if anyone asks about it later, but those sorts of plans usually backfire on him, so he answers it.  
  
“Hello?” he says warily.  
  
“Leonard?”  
  
“Speaking. Who the hell is this?”  
  
“It’s Jim? Jim Kirk?”  
  
Oh god. Oh god, why is this happening? Why is this his life? Leonard fumbles around mentally for an appropriate response and falls violently short. “What, you’re not sure?”  
  
There’s a crackle of static like Jim has just laughed into the phone. “I was hoping you’d added my number to your contacts and thus you’d  _know_ it was me.”  
  
“Sorry,” says Leonard. “You’re not on my speed dial yet, either. I feel like we need to have a few more awkward encounters before I bump my mother off number one. How did you get my number?”  
  
There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence. “You texted me,” says Jim slowly.   
  
“No,” says Leonard, something akin to panic creeping into his voice. “ _No_ , I didn’t. I was about to, but I have most definitely not texted you yet. What did I say?!” he demands.  
  
“You asked me to call you,” replies Jim. “It was just, like, ‘This is Leonard, before I regret it here’s my number too, so call me.’ So. Here I am, calling you. Hi.”  
  
Leonard stares. He’s aware his jaw is hanging open, but there’s nobody around to see him, so he keeps on doing it because nothing else conveys just how much horror he’s feeling right now. “I texted you,” he repeats.   
  
“You texted me,” echoes Jim. “Are we going to move past this part of the conversation, or do you need to circle around it some more?”  
  
There had been a moment. A fuzzy, tired, on-vicodin-for-the-pain moment which Leonard had previously filed away as a dream, where he’d woken up with his face plastered to the pillow by drool and his phone had been in his hand and he’d thought to himself,  _I could text Jim._    
  
Apparently he hadn’t just thought it, he’d actually gone ahead and  _done it_.  
  
“I was going to call you anyway,” says Leonard weakly.   
  
“You said that,” says Jim, a smile in his voice. “And now we’re talking. It’s kind of a how a conversation works.”  
  
Leonard scowls at a crack in the wall opposite him. He should really get that caulked up.   
  
“Bones?”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” snaps Leonard. “Dinner. Friday. 7 pm. I’ll text you the address.”  
  
“Okay,” says Jim genially.   
  
“Okay,” barks Leonard and ends the call.   
  
Then he sits quietly on the carpet and listens to the buzzing in his head and after a little while he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t know what to do next. It’s been a long time since he went out on an actual date. Date nights in the first year of marriage to Jocelyn were completely different because they knew each other, could finish each other’s sentences or sit in silence for twenty minutes without feeling uncomfortable, and the good night kiss was expected and easy and the good night sex was slow-burning and their bodies fit and he never really smacked noses with her anymore when they made out in the dark.   
  
He blinks back an unexpected film of tears and takes a shaky breath. Sometimes he still misses Joce like sin.  
  
At a loss, he palms his phone again and texts a very succinct  _HELP_  to Christine.  
  
 _What? What did you do? Did you talk too much?_  
  
 _Always. Please come over. Apparently I have a date on Friday._  
  
 _I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t move._  
  


oOo

  
  
“Wear this,” says Christine, throwing a green shirt and a pair of loose-fit dark-wash jeans on the bed. “And when you come out of the shower, don’t do that thing where you comb your hair five million times with gel until you’ve formed an immovable helmet. Comb it with your fingers. Don’t even look at the gel. Let it dry naturally.”  
  
“What’s wrong with how I do my hair?” asks Leonard defensively.   
  
“Nothing,” says Christine, her voice muffled by the interior of Leonard’s tiny closet. “But it doesn’t move. Give it some air. Give it some space. Let it breathe. It needs a vacation.”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure what we’re talking about anymore.”  
  
“Which is exactly why you’re so hopeless,” sighs Christine, removing a tie Leonard doesn’t remember buying from somewhere in the depths of garment hell. “You’re the one that demanded my help.”  
  
Leonard flushes warmly. “And you know that I’m incapable of verbalizing that need in anything other than complaints and sulking.”  
  
Christine makes a small sound of triumph and steps out of the closet holding a plain black belt. “The fact that you’re aware of how you behave gives me hope for your future. Maybe one day you’ll be able to communicate like an adult instead of just having nervous breakdowns in my general direction.”  
  
Leonard sighs and flops backwards onto the bed where he’s been watching Christine deftly organize his life. “You’re a good friend.”  
  
“I know,” she says. “I buy myself a YOU’RE APPRECIATED card from Hallmark sometimes and sign it from you.”  
  
Leonard lets out a chuckle and listens to Christine moving around his bedroom gathering together cologne and aftershave and clucking disapprovingly at his underwear when she reaches the dresser. “Every single pair of boxers you own has a hole somewhere. Do I have to go out and buy you new underwear, too?”  
  
He pauses. “Would you? I’ll give you ten bucks.”  
  
A faded pair of flannel shorts hits him in the face. “I have to draw the line somewhere, Len.”  
  
“Christine,” he says abruptly, in a strangled voice. He peels the underwear away from his face and tries not to meet her eyes. “I can’t do this. It’s been two years since—”  
  
“I know,” interrupts Christine. “And you’ve come a long way. You did the right thing. It could’ve all come crashing down on you years later if you’d just ignored the signs, but you didn’t, and things are better now.”  
  
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know. But I haven’t had so much as a date since, out of pure, unbridled terror, and I don’t know how to do it anymore. I didn’t really know how to do it then, Chris.”  
  
Sometimes he still wakes up in the night because he’s rolled over to pull Joce into his arms and she’s not there and all he can do is sigh and remind himself that it wasn’t working.   
  
Because it wasn’t.   
  
They’d gone from best friends to strangers in five short years and one night Leonard had woken up on the couch, confused and disoriented, and padded into the kitchen to make a sandwich.   
  
Joce had been sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal for dinner because neither of them had bothered to make a proper meal in more than six months and he’d stopped and looked at her and couldn’t remember the last time they’d kissed on the mouth so he said, “It’s not working, is it?”  
  
“No,” she’d said through a mouthful of cheerios. “Honey, it really isn’t.”  
  
There’d been no fights. No shouting. The divorce had been easy, amicable, though no less lonely and empty once all was said and done. For about a month afterward, they’d kept spontaneously driving to each other’s new apartments to return things that had been overlooked and would sometimes end up sitting and talking for hours over coffee or a beer.   
  
Their friendship had been rebuilt during those wistful hours, which was an indescribable relief to Leonard, who was shaken by how he hadn’t even noticed the degradation in the first place, but the marriage itself had never really gotten going and neither of them particularly missed it. So for a while they remained friends, if not quite as close as they’d once been, and that was the end of that.   
  
Now, they sent each other birthday cards, phoned on Christmas, and occasionally remembered to reply to each other’s emails.  
  
Most notably, the split had built a deep and lasting paranoia in Leonard.   
  
He hadn’t noticed. Joce was his best friend and he hadn’t noticed what was happening between them. For the first time in his life, Leonard hadn’t been able to make sense of the things around him. Was this how relationships evolved? Uncontrollable and silent in their wreckage of self-esteem and confidence?  
  
He’d emerged from the divorce blinking and bewildered and practically unshakable in his resolve to avoid anything resembling an attempt at a new long-term relationship.   
  
If he didn’t date, he couldn’t screw shit up.  
  
And now here he is. Dating.  
  


oOo

  
  
When Friday inevitably rolls around, as Fridays are wont to do, Leonard gives himself a good three hours in which to prepare for his date.   
  
Getting his jeans on, for example, presents previously unforeseen challenges.   
  
Showering is enough of a pain in the ass. There’s a plastic bag involved. And duct tape. Plus a stool to sit on. Then there’s the involved process of toweling himself off without falling over. By the time he’s dry and naked and has stripped away the wet plastic bag and is feeling inordinately proud of himself for accomplishing the first shower he’s actually bothered to take since breaking his leg, he’s almost completely forgotten that he’s not even ready yet.   
  
He still has to clothe himself.   
  
There’s an embarrassing amount of wriggling required to get the jeans that Christine picked out for him off his bed and onto his lower body, and he spends most of that half hour cursing freely before finally collapsing breathless on the floor.   
  
By the time he’s fully dressed and he’s quadruple-checked whether he’s remembered to shave and put on deodorant and cologne and he’s successfully wearing one shoe and a thick sock, he’s late.   
  
He fumbles his wallet into his pocket, shrugs on his coat, and grabs his crutches.   
  
Yeah. This is gonna be  _great_.  
  


oOo

  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Leonard breathlessly when he finally arrives. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Jim is already there. Of course Jim is already there, he was probably on  _time_ , unlike Leonard, who is an utterly fantastic twenty-five minutes late for the date he spent three hours dressing and preparing himself for.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim, startled. He gets to his feet, looking utterly slick in a dark charcoal suit jacket and grey shirt, wearing jeans just like Leonard. Leonard is stupidly relieved that they’ve gone for equal levels of smart-casual. Christine was right. Which is not surprising. Christine is always right. “Hey, need a hand?”  
  
“No,” says Leonard, bracing himself on the back of the chair and swinging his body into the seat. He leans the crutches up against the wall and sighs. “God. I’m sorry I’m late. It took me the approximate length of a glacial age just to shower and dress myself.”  
  
Jim’s face brightens with a lewd sort of expression that 100% means he’s picturing Leonard naked. “I’m pretty impressed you got jeans on at all. When I broke my leg, it was all shorts, all the time. You’re to be commended.”  
  
“Or mocked copiously,” shrugs Leonard, allowing himself a tiny smile. “You find the place okay?”  
  
“My GPS did,” says Jim. “I’m very good at following instructions.”  
  
Leonard snorts. “Somehow I doubt that.”  
  
“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” says Jim gravely.  
  
Leonard directs a sidelong glance at the waitress who’s suddenly materialized at his elbow and says, “Do you think he’s trying to tell me something?”  
  
She gives Jim a speculative glance. “I think you’re okay unless he tries to choke you with his mind. Wine?”  
  
Leonard glances at Jim, who gestures expansively as if to say ‘it’s your call’ while he peruses the menu.  
  
“House white,” says Leonard, even though he doesn’t really drink wine. Normal people enjoy wine with dinner, don’t they? If he starts hitting the bourbon now while he’s anxious and jittery, then bad, vomit-y things are likely to occur.  
  
Throwing up all over himself and passing out on the sidewalk isn’t how he wants this evening to end.   
  
“Ooh,” says Jim, “They’ve got mozzarella sticks.”   
  
“I’m eyeing the potato skins,” mutters Leonard.   
  
“Sharesies?” suggests Jim, raising both eyebrows.  
  
Leonard meets his gaze steadily. “You’re on.”  
  


oOo

  
  
“I’ll have the pan-fried catfish with collards on the side,” says Leonard without even looking at the menu when the starters have been carefully divvied up and mostly consumed and the waitress has once again reappeared with uncanny timing.   
  
“Cornbread?” she asks, tapping at her PDA.  
  
“You really gotta ask, darlin’?” teases Leonard with a crooked smile, handing her back the menu.   
  
He notices Jim watching him from over the edge of his menu, apparently intrigued. “And for you, sir?” she asks, turning her attention to Jim.  
  
“The pulled pork sandwich, please,” he says promptly, “With, um, coleslaw and baked beans.”  
  
“Good choice,” murmurs Leonard. The wine is going down easily enough, which means Leonard’s nerves have been smothered under a blanket of bubbly good humour. “Especially those baked beans.”  
  
“So, I’m getting the idea you’re not originally from San Francisco,” says Jim, draining his own glass of wine and, upon realising they’ve finished the bottle, signalling for another.   
  
Leonard nods. “Choice of restaurant’s a bit of a giveaway, but it’s my favourite place to come, and I feel comfortable here. Georgia, born and raised. Family’s from Savannah, which is where my mama still lives. Went to college in Mississippi, though.” And then he narrows his eyes at Jim as he realises he’s missing something fairly important. “Wait, what the hell do  _you_ do?”  
  
“I’m a professional hitman,” Jim says earnestly. “So now, unfortunately, I’ll have to kill you.”  
  
“Oh,” sighs Leonard. “That’s a damn shame. Do I get to choose how I die?”  
  
Jim’s bright grin is difficult not to reciprocate no matter how hard Leonard tries to remain staunchly unaffected. “Only if it’s flashy and unique. Well, uh, reality’s not as epic or interesting. I’m working part-time as a paralegal right now. I passed the LSAT and started law school, but, uh, it’s kind of on hold for now. Pretty much every single one of the classes made me want to die, so I finished a paralegal certification out of desperation so that I wouldn’t be a jobless drop-out. At this rate, I might graduate by the time I’m thirty. I’m thinking of going back to school this fall.”  
  
 _Leonard_ is almost thirty. He doesn’t know how old Jim is. Should he ask? Would that be weird? What if he’s distressingly young? He doesn’t look  _that_ baby-faced. If he started law school but didn’t finish, indicating he is in possession of an undergraduate degree, and he’s been working for a while… No, that gives him nothing; Leonard still has no real baseline for constructing a relevant time-frame for Jim’s possible age. Older than twenty is the best he can come up with.  
  
Despite the whirl of his thoughts all tripping over each other in their respective freak-outs, he manages to ask, “So you might take classes part-time while you work?” in a completely level and casual tone of voice. He rewards himself with another sip of wine.  
  
Jim nods. “Spread out, in nice easy payments. Like a mortgage.”  
  
“Except at the end of it, you don’t own a house,” snorts Leonard.  
  
A stricken expression flashes across Jim’s face. “You don’t?!”  
  
Leonard startles himself and a nearby busboy by dissolving into genuine laughter.   
  
Jim mirrors his grin. “You have adorable dimples when you smile.” He reaches out across the table and pokes Leonard in the cheek. “Right there. Boop.”  
  
“Stop that,” protests Leonard, still chuckling. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain, dammit. I’ve built my entire career around being a cranky bastard. I can’t have anyone thinking I’m capable of  _laughter_.”  
  
“Or joy,” nods Jim gravely.  
  
“Joy is overrated,” declares Leonard, pointing sharply at Jim. “Abject misery is where my heart lies. Everything’s the  _worst_.”  
  
“Food’s coming,” Jim says suddenly, sitting up in his chair and watching their waitress approach. His eyes are very blue, as Leonard has previously noted, and he has an awfully nice smile. There have been very few men in his life to which Leonard has been immediately sexually attracted; few men that have actually made him so fucking stupid with desire that he can’t really dispel the eager giddiness in his soul.  
  
“This looks amazing,” Jim is saying, as their food is set down before them. “I want to mash my face right into this.”  
  
Leonard is so fucked. This can only end in tragedy.  
  


oOo

  
  
“Thanks for getting the cab. You didn’t have to take me all the way home,” says Leonard, leaning up against the wall. His armpits ache, and his leg hurts, but he’s kind of drunk and dinner was legendary and Jim... Jim is smiling at him again. Oh god. He is so pathetically hopeless. “It’s the silver one with the square top.”  
  
“Oh,” says Jim, flipping through Leonard’s keys, before unlocking his apartment door for him. “There you go. And don’t worry. My pleasure. This was...really fun.”  
  
There’s a beat, and then suddenly they’re kissing.   
  
Leonard loses time like he’s in an episode of  _The X-Files_  and there has been some manner of extraterrestrial encounter only he can’t remember the abduction or what happens during and comes back to himself when Jim’s tongue is in his mouth and Leonard’s tongue is making a break for it into Jim’s, Jim having pressed him up against the wall and cupped Leonard’s jaw with both hands.   
  
Leonard  _mmphs_ softly, drops one of his crutches with a clatter, and surges forward, their noses bumping and their teeth clacking together.  
  
When they part long, frantic moments later, Jim is panting, and Leonard’s face feels like he spent the weekend in the sun without a hat or sunscreen. He’s warm from his toes all the way up to the top of his scalp, his lips tingling, and they’re pressed up close together and  _that is Jim’s dick half-hard against his hip_.   
  
“Okay,” says Leonard quickly, thumbing at a bit of saliva on the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Great,” says Jim at the same time, backing up hurriedly and looking as flushed as Leonard feels.   
  
“Um,” says Leonard.   
  
“Your keys,” says Jim.  
  
“Oh,” stammers Leonard. “Right.” He palms the proffered set of keys and shoves them into the pocket of his jeans.   
  
“And your—” Jim bends over to retrieve the fallen crutch.  
  
“Thanks,” mumbles Leonard.   
  
“Good night,” Jim says, running his fingers through his mussed hair. His eyes are hooded and he’s looking at Leonard like he wants to devour him. “I desperately want to bang you, by the way. But I’m being classy and saying good night since it’s the first date.”  
  
“Right,” breathes Leonard. “Good to know. Great. Yes. Call me? Or text me. Smoke signals, semaphore, whatever. Anything. Bye.”  
  
“Bye,” says Jim, and then he crowds Leonard right up against the door for another bruising electric kiss before he pulls away and disappears down the corridor, around the corner, and into the elevator.   
  
Leonard manages to fumble his way into his apartment, dazed and buzzing, his nerves a carnival of activity. He trips on a pair of abandoned shoes in an apparent bid to break his other leg, stumbles over the edge of his living room carpet, and eventually ends up face down in his bed, groping one hand down between his legs. He muffles his own groan in a pillow and then curses heartily when his phone rings in his pocket. Girls do  _not_ just want to have fun.  _Leonard_  wants to have fun too. He wants to be left alone to have some fucking fun with his hand, and there is only one person who’d be calling him right now.  
  
“You have terrible timing,” he mumbles into the phone, face still compressed against the mattress and eyes squeezed shut as he concentrates on replicating the fleeting sensation of Jim’s body pressed against his, the plush warmth of his lips, the hot slide of his tongue.   
  
“Oh, god, you’re having sex right now, aren’t you,” says Christine in obvious alarm. “You  _slut_.”  
  
“I am not having sex,” protests Leonard, wrapping his fingers around his cock and squeezing. “I’m masturbating. There’s a difference.”  
  
“Are you thinking of Jim Kirk?”  
  
“You are such an inappropriate friend,” complains Leonard.   
  
“You are. You totally are.”  
  
“I’m hanging up now.”   
  
He finishes the night humping his own hand and it’s the still the best date he’s ever had.   
  


oOo

  
  
Leonard’s pretty sure he dreams of Jim, which is only natural because he goes to sleep thinking of kissing him, but he can’t be certain because the entire dream process is cruelly interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and a male voice saying, “Len, wake up, I’ve brought you a pity breakfast sandwich and heaps of mockery.”  
  
The smell of bacon and eggs hits him suddenly, his mouth watering, and Leonard makes the rookie mistake of trying to open his eyes. Not only is Geoff leaning over him, disorientingly out of focus, but he’s also backed by the light of _ten thousand burning suns_.   
  
“Aaarhggh,” he whimpers, flailing all available limbs and burying his face in the pillow as the warm throb of morning lances cheerfully through his retinas to settle comfortably at the back of his skull. “Why are you doing this to me? Leave the sandwich and go. Let me enjoy my hangover in peace.” He sticks out an expectant hand and waits.   
  
Geoff chuckles nearby and then the bed dips as he sits down on the edge. “I’ve got something you’ll want first.”  
  
Something curved like a cup is pressed into his outstretched hand, and Leonard inhales a reverent breath. “ _Coffee_. You’re allowed to stay.”   
  
“How’s the leg?” asks Geoff.  
  
“Still broken,” mutters Leonard. He peels his eyes open a fraction, letting in just enough light to see, and squirms around until he’s sitting up against a pillow. The coffee is fragrant and hot against his palms and he takes a long, slow sip.   
  
“Everyone misses you,” says Geoff. “The light has gone out of our lives. It’s like overcast skies in our hearts.”  
  
“I’m sure everyone is counting down the days until my return,” mutters Leonard dryly.   
  
“We’re banding together to get through the next two weeks. You’d be proud.”  
  
“Sandwich,” says Leonard, holding out his hand and gesturing pointedly.   
  
“Magic word,” retorts Geoff.  
  
“Please,” says Leonard, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Not quite what I had in mind,” teases Geoff, his cheeks dimpling with a lopsided smile.   
  
“You’re not serious?” Leonard sighs. “Please, can I have the sandwich, Dr. M’Benga? You’re better than me at everything.”  
  
Geoff keeps staring.   
  
“And also better looking and witty and talented,” scowls Leonard. “Now, gimme.”  
  
“I wish I’d had my tape recorder,” says Geoff wistfully, passing him the sandwich and watching Leonard tear into it. “Chris told me about your date. How is it that I, your oldest friend, the one that has put up with you since medical school, wasn’t informed?”  
  
“I don’t know,” mumbles Leonard around a mouthful of english muffin. “Maybe I was still boycotting the general idea of your existence because you drew a  _dick_ on my cast.”  
  
“Did you put out?” asks Geoff eagerly, apparently ignoring the words coming out of Leonard’s mouth. “Are you going steady? Are you seeing him again? I haven’t seen you date anyone since—”  
  
“I know,” interrupts Leonard, frowning thoughtfully and then licking a bit of mayonnaise from his thumb. “And anyway, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”  
  
“Since when are you a gentleman?”  
  
“We made out,” says Leonard flatly. “That’s it. If Christine has led you to believe anything other than that happened, it’s because she has terrible fucking timing and she’s not allowed to call me after ten PM ever again.”  
  
“Christine will never agree to that,” says Geoff, picking up his coat from the back of Leonard’s desk chair and shrugging it back on. “I’ll tell her I fed you and that you don’t look entirely dead despite what I can tell must be a bitch of a hangover, so if she calls later to make sure you didn’t get your head caught in the toilet, it’s not my fault, I did my part.”  
  
“Why do you two insist on tag-teaming me like this?” demands Leonard. “I’m perfectly capable of surviving in my apartment alone for two weeks. I’ve only known Chris for five years. How does she think I managed without her in the first twenty-three years of my life?”  
  
“Dumb luck? She’s afraid you’ll slip and fall and die and no one will notice for two days,” shrugs Geoff. “It happens to the best of us.”  
  
“I’m not a senior citizen!” cries Leonard. “I’m surprised she didn’t try to give me a medic alert bracelet when I got discharged.”  
  
Geoff pauses in the threshold of Leonard’s bedroom doorway. “And I’m surprised she didn’t just have you  _microchipped_. Talk to you later, Len.”  
  
“Bye,” says Leonard. “Thanks for breakfast.”  
  
Geoff lets himself out, and Leonard is left to his own devices again, lying in his rumpled bed wearing shorts covered in dry come.  
  
After a while spent contemplating the effort involved in dragging himself out of bed and into the bathtub for a much-needed soak, Leonard notices the television remote is within arm’s reach and instead of engaging in basic hygiene practices he watches soap operas for four hours.   
  
When his phone rings, Leonard just assumes it’s Christine, because who else could it be?   
  
That’s why he answers with, “I haven’t fallen and broken my neck. In fact, I’m still safely ensconced in bed,” rather than glancing at the screen to check the identity of his caller.   
  
There’s unexpected silence at the other end. Then, Jim says, “Not that that isn’t a tempting image, Bones, but I was calling to ask if you’d like to meet for coffee tomorrow. Are you in danger of breaking your neck? I’d hate to have to call an ambulance for you twice.”  
  
“Jim,” breathes Leonard, picking up a book from his bedside table and knocking himself in the forehead with it. “Sorry. I thought you were—I was expecting a friend to call. How are you? Uh. Coffee? Tomorrow?” He does a mental calendar check. “Sunday? That... yes. That would be great.”  
  
“Awesome,” says Jim cheerily. “Then I’ll pick you up at 2. Text me your address, okay? I don’t remember how to get there.”  
  
“What? No, I can—meet you, just tell me where.”  
  
“Nope,” says Jim. “You have a broken leg, I have a car. I can pick you up. Besides, we’re not just going to get coffee. Text me!” Then he hangs up abruptly, to forestall anymore protests, and Leonard scowls as he taps out his address into a text and signs it with  _‘this better be good, you ass.’_  
  
It’s only after he’s sent it that he becomes aware of the fact that Jim is not Chris or Geoffrey or Gaila or Hikaru or any one of his friends and colleagues, and yet he has jumped to slinging around insults and token grumpy protests alarmingly fast.   
  
He’s clutching his phone, pondering how best to backtrack and apologise, when Jim replies.  _If it’s not, I have ways to make it up to you. C’mon, Bones, keep an open mind._  
  
For whatever reason, he sits and smiles dumbly at the message for nearly twenty minutes, and then the urge to piss completely overrides his dopey good humour and he begins the arduous process of getting to the bathroom without his crutches, which he can’t actually locate and suspects may be in two separate places in the living room.  
  
(They are.)  
  


oOo

  
  
“Here,” says Jim, handing him a cup of coffee after Leonard has gotten himself settled in the front seat of his car. “I didn’t know how you take it, so there are some sugar packets and creamers in the cupholder if you want them.”  
  
“What—” says Bones, taking the cup dumbly.   
  
“Buckled in?”  
  
“Obviously. I’m not a fool. Why—”  
  
“Coffee,” says Jim, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “I never said we were going to get it in, like, a coffee shop. We’re going for a drive. That’s cool, right? Your schedule is free today?”  
  
Leonard isn’t awake enough for this. He’d slept until noon, until the alarm he’d set for himself had jarred him out of bewildering and nonsensical dreams, and then he’d soaked in the tub until he’d felt even remotely human and considerably more wrinkly. Now Jim is chattering at him about the coast and beaches and sunshine and he tunes him out and digs frantically into the cupholder for the little plastic containers of creamer.   
  
“Bones?”  
  
“What?” snaps Leonard. Since when did he start answering to ‘Bones’? What is his life these days?  
  
“You went totally silent and kind of zoned out,” says Jim. “I got concerned by the lack of verbal activity. I’ve grown accustomed to hearing you talk.”  
  
“If you insist on kidnapping me for whatever nefarious beach-related shenanigans you’ve planned, then I suppose I’ve got nothing else going on today,” mutters Leonard. “But if I get home with sand in my underpants, or worse, inside my  _cast_ , then you may want to skip town for a while.”  
  
“Bitch bitch bitch,” says Jim good-naturedly. “Finish your coffee, grumpypants. Are you hungry? There are some muffins in the glove compartment.”  
  
“Do you store food like a squirrel?” demands Leonard, pulling open the latch and extracting a takeout box of muffins. “Hiding snacks for winter? Are there twinkies in the cabinet behind your bathroom mirror? There’s a cinnamon scone in here, too. Am I allowed to have the scone?”  
  
Jim makes a scoffing sound. “Winter? In San Francisco? I laugh in your general direction. Back home, we know the  _real_ meaning of winter.”  
  
Leonard takes Jim’s lack of response regarding the scone to mean it’s fair game. “Back home?” he echoes through a mouthful of pastry. “Where are you from, kid?”  
  
“Iowa,” replies Jim, shooting Leonard a sideways glance. “Where it actually snows.”  
  
“It gets cold here,” shrugs Leonard. “And it rains a lot. That’s winter, as far as I can tell.”  
  
“Cold,” repeats Jim scornfully. “ _Rain_.”  
  
“Easy, cowboy,” drawls Leonard.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim suddenly. “You ate my scone!”  
  
“You failed to stop me when given the chance,” protests Leonard, holding his hands up. “And it was  _delicious_.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Jim takes him to Baker Beach, just south of Golden Gate point, which Leonard has seen from the bridge but never actually bothered to visit.   
  
It’s a bright, chilly day, which means the beach is sparsely populated by occasional small groups of people, all dressed like Jim and Leonard in jeans and hoodies.   
  
“This is a terrible idea for the guy on crutches,” says Leonard, following cautiously after Jim. He’s entertaining visions of his crutches sinking in the sand and sending him face-first into the ground.  
  
“We’re not going far,” says Jim reassuringly. “Not down to the water.” He’s got a threadbare blanket bundled in his arms, which, when they reach the sand, he shakes out and settles onto the ground, getting down on his hands and knees to weigh down the corners with rocks. “G’on,” he says. “Sit.”  
  
He hovers without offering help, which Leonard appreciates deeply, and he sinks down onto the blanket, folding his leg beneath him as he leaves the cast outstretched, once again grateful both breaks were below the knee and he can actually still bend both of his legs. “There,” he says, setting aside his crutches. “I’m sitting. What happens now?”  
  
“Be right back,” says Jim, and he runs back off towards where he’s parked the car.   
  
Leonard sighs. Then he mutters disparagingly to himself. And then he has a proper look around, registering distant street and city noise though it’s mostly drowned out by the crashing waves. There are whitecaps all over the yawning Pacific, the tide rolling in against the pale, scruffy beach. The view of the bridge is excellent from here, rising up red and gleaming towards the south end of the beach.   
  
He sits, and he breathes, letting in deep lungfuls of crisp, briny air, faintly metallic on the back of his palate. The wind ruffles his hair as he relaxes, leaning back on his hands and staring out at the tumble of the ocean.  
  
“Hey,” says Jim, startling Leonard out of his quiet contemplation and materializing in front of him. “I brought food.” He holds up an honest-to-goodness picnic basket, and Leonard immediately regrets all of his complaining from earlier.   
  
“A picnic?” says Leonard stupidly.   
  
Jim chuckles, putting down the basket and sitting across from Leonard. “What did you think we were going to do?”  
  
Leonard doesn’t think he was thinking of anything, so he remains silent, watching Jim unpack the basket and lay out containers full of sandwiches and baby carrots and celery sticks with dip. There’s a thermos full of more coffee, and a tin of what Jim reveals are home-made brownies.   
  
“Huh,” says Leonard, surprised and pleased, smiling slowly as Jim holds out a tupperware container and asks, “Ham and cheese, or egg salad?”  
  
They’re quiet as they eat, looking out over a sea lit to blazing by the sun, until Leonard swallows a bite of his sandwich and asks, “Why did you leave Iowa?”  
  
Jim blinks eyes that are currently the colour of the pale blue sky and purses his lips. “University, initially. I went to school here. And then my brother moved out here with his wife and kids a couple of years back and all plans that I’d had about San Francisco being temporary kind of just evaporated.”  
  
“You’re close with your brother?” asks Leonard, not a little enviously. He’s an only child.  
  
“Yeah,” says Jim, smiling. “Sam is great. And I get to be Cool Uncle Jim, which is pretty great. All the joy of kids, with the added bonus of leaving them behind when you go home. Have you got brothers or sisters?”  
  
“No,” says Leonard. “I’ve got a big bunch of cousins, but I only saw ‘em once or twice a year growing up. And I was always the youngest of the lot, so I was basically their guinea pig. They were sweet with me, but they also shaved off my eyebrows, got me stranded on the roof of the barn, and tied me to the fence and left me there till dinner.”  
  
Leonard can tell Jim is trying really fucking hard not to laugh in his face. “You’re adorable,” he finally says, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Oh my god. I need to see photos of you as a kid. I’m picturing you kind of tiny, with all this floppy brown hair, trailing after everyone, all dimples and huge eyes. Am I right?”  
  
Leonard makes an unimpressed noise. “As if I’d tell. There is no record of my childhood in my apartment. You’d have fly to Savannah and have a dig around my mama’s house. Which ain’t gonna happen,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Jim’s expression.   
  
Jim grins and bites into a brownie. “Don’t underestimate me, McCoy.”  
  
“Oh, I’d never underestimate your ability to be a total creeper,” replies Leonard. “Hey, did you have any of these carrots? They’re good for you.”  
  
Jim pulls a face. “But...brownie!”  
  
“But, nothing,” interjects Leonard, grabbing the brownie from Jim and cramming it into his own mouth because apparently just the mere proximity of Jim turns him into a complete idiot. He chews deliberately and moans theatrically when he swallows.   
  
Meanwhile, Jim is busy staring at him like Leonard just ate his dog, not his brownie.   
  
“Five carrots,” says Leonard, mouth still kind of full. “Five carrots and you can have a brownie.”  
  
Jim full-on pouts at him. “I could leave you here,” he threatens. “I could run back to the car and abandon you to the wilds of California.”  
  
“There’s a person,” says Leonard, pointing sharply at a passing woman who throws him a bewildered glance. “Right there. I could beg her for help and report you to the police. Also, I have a cell phone.”  
  
“You don’t know where I live,” Jim retorts smugly.   
  
Leonard has no appropriate response to this, so he throws a carrot at Jim’s head.   
  
It’s a lapse in maturity that’s very emotionally satisfying, particularly when coupled with Jim’s resulting yelp.  
  


oOo

  
  
Over the next two weeks, Jim asks Leonard out on four separate dates. He also brings him groceries twice, after Leonard invites him inside for a coffee one night and then quickly realises he doesn’t have milk, sugar, or any, you know,  _coffee_. When they are not actively in each other’s presence, they text constantly; voluntarily communicating with someone multiple times a day is something Leonard has only ever done with Jocelyn and, more recently, Christine.   
  
As a result, he doesn’t text anything remotely sexy or flirtatious. Luckily, neither does Jim, or else Leonard might be forced to kill them both in some kind of twisted murder-suicide pact. Instead, they’ve settled into a daily cycle of affectionate insults that squeeze warmly at Leonard’s heart and make him feel like he’s suffering constant fits of arrhythmia.   
  
It’s his first day back at work since the accident, on reduced hours until he gets the thumbs up for a walking cast, and he’s sprawled on the sofa in the break room, phone in hand, when Christine flops down next to him and grabs it right out of his hands.   
  
“What are you smiling about?” she asks. “Oh my god, are you  _sexting_? Please tell me you’re sexting.”  
  
“Hey!” squawks Leonard, flailing at Christine while she holds his phone out of his reach. “Give it back, woman!”  
  
“Aw,” she says, scrolling through the half-finished message he was composing. “This isn’t filthy or inappropriate. Are you having a fight? You just called him a degenerate hobo.”  
  
“What? No,” snaps Leonard, leaning over Christine and snatching his phone back. “We’re talking. Like normal people do. Go away.”  
  
“How many dates have you two been on?”  
  
“Uh,” says Leonard. “Six?”  
  
A funny expression crosses Christine's face. “Have you asked  _him_ out?”  
  
“What?” repeats Leonard. “What do you mean, of course—” And then he trails off. Because, no, he fucking hasn’t. Leonard hasn’t initiated a single date since the very first dinner, which was kind of a fluke anyway, because Jim was the one that called him in the first place. “Oh.”  
  
Christine hits him with a pillow. “Yeah.  _Oh_. Invite him over after work for dinner and a movie. It’ll be  _romantic_.”  
  
Leonard looks up at her helplessly. “What if he thinks that I’m not serious? He’s doing all the work! I didn’t even  _notice_.”  
  
His heart contracts sharply as soon as the words leave his mouth.   
  
“Len,” says Christine gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. Invite him over.” She looks over her shoulder at him as she leaves the break room and winks. “Maybe there will be some more _shenanigans_.”  
  
Leonard flushes. There have been some shenanigans indeed. Just thinking about them makes Leonard want more, which is a bad idea when he’s got at least six hours left in his shift and will not be anywhere near Jim’s body for the foreseeable future.   
  
He deletes his half-finished text to Jim and composes a new one with considerably less vitriol.  
  
 _You and your cock should come over tonight. I’m going to order a pizza and fall asleep in front of the TV. It’ll be pathetic._  
  
Jim texts him back two minutes later.   
  
 _How could I pass up you drooling all over me? We’ll be there._

oOo

 

Jim seems to interpret “come over tonight” as “come pick me up from work.” When Leonard stumbles out of the hospital at half past eight, he drops a crutch when he gestures rudely at a car that cuts him off at the crosswalk and Jim appears from nowhere like a goddamned ninja to scoop it up.  
  
“My lord,” he says, handing it back. “Your chariot awaits.”  
  
“Where the hell did you come from?” demands Leonard, snatching back the crutch and immediately dropping the other when he waves his hand in Jim’s face, protesting his general existence. “Have you been parked out here waiting for me? What if I’d gone out the back doors?”  
  
“I went to the nurse’s station,” says Jim. He waits for Leonard to get himself organised and then starts to lead the way into the parking lot. “Your friend, Christine? She told me you’d be out in fifteen minutes, and to wait out here.”  
  
“You met Christine,” says Leonard faintly.   
  
“Yeah. She seems nice. She smiled at me a lot.”  
  
Leonard blinks owlishly in the darkness and tries not to focus too much on how he was convinced the universe would implode should Christine and Jim meet and exchange words. “Let’s just go pick up a pizza.”  


oOo

  
  
Leonard falls asleep in the car, folded against the passenger-side window; Leonard also falls asleep leaning up against Jim in the doorway as Jim helps him get his shoes off and then change out of his scrubs; and then, as predicted, they get as far as putting on a movie and eating two slices of pizza before Leonard falls asleep on Jim’s shoulder.   
  
He wakes when something soft brushes against his temple and he murmurs sleepily and turns his face up into the touch. When his lips meet Jim’s he realises Jim was kissing him, nuzzling his hair with his cheek and pressing his mouth to Leonard’s head.   
  
“Jim,” he mumbles, opening bleary eyes and getting treated to a caught-out expression on Jim’s face, sheepish and fond.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim softly. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”  
  
“What are you doing?” asks Leonard. The TV is still on but the volume is muted, and Jim has managed to completely surround Leonard with his body, arms wrapped around his waist. They’re cuddling.  
  
“Nothing,” says Jim. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
  
“Some date, huh,” sighs Leonard. “Me, passed out and drooling on top of you. This must be an excellent way to spend your evening.” He pauses. “ _Did_  I actually drool on you?”  
  
“A little bit,” admits Jim. “It’s okay. Bones, you’re fine, just relax.”  
  
“Didn’t want you to think I ain’t interested,” mumbles Leonard, burying his face against Jim in a effort to muffle himself because even in a state so sleep-deprived he can barely remember his own name, this is embarrassing. “You’ve been doing all the asking out and I’ve been letting you. I’m incompetent at dating.”  
  
“Hey,” says Jim again gently. His hand settles into the tangled mess of Leonard’s hair, stroking soothingly. “Want to go to bed?”  
  
“Yeah,” replies Leonard, dopey with exhaustion. “Help me up, okay? Can’t be fucked to get my crutches.”  
  
“Would you be fucked if you did?” leers Jim, pulling Leonard’s arm over his shoulder and winking at him.  
  
“That’s terrible,” groans Leonard.   
  
Together they shuffle to the bedroom with only a modicum of cursing. After some frustrated fumbling with his t-shirt that results in Leonard getting caught with his arms up over his head, Jim steps in, undressing him while Leonard slumps on the edge of the mattress.   
  
Considering the level of Leonard’s exhaustion, having sex is not the logical next step in this scenario.   
  
But Jim manipulates Leonard onto his side, tucking a pillow under his head and pulling the sheets up, and Leonard can’t stand the closeness of his body without snaking an arm out to trap him and pull him in range of his mouth.   
  
Jim makes a soft sound, leaning obligingly into Leonard’s orbit, their lips moving together with languorous warmth, slow and easy. Leonard is too tired for anything remotely dexterous. Smacked noses, clacking teeth, hot, wet kisses; Jim tucks his body alongside Leonard’s and nudges his boxers down with one hand, tugging the elastic over the sharp jut of Leonard’s hips.   
  
Arousal coils in his belly as he jerks against Jim’s thigh, cock filling at the friction.   
  
“Wait,” mumbles Jim. Leonard makes a displeased sound when he pulls away, squinting up at him as Jim reaches into the drawer of the bedside table, extracting a tube of lubricant.   
  
There’s another full-body shuffle, as Jim inches close enough for their hips to slot together, gently tucks a pillow under Leonard’s broken leg, leaving it stretched out on the mattress, while he tucks Leonard’s other leg over his thigh.   
  
Leonard sighs into his mouth, closing his eyes again. Falling asleep while Jim attempts to have sex with him would be pretty damn humiliating, especially considering they haven’t  _had_ penetrative sex yet. This is probably going to be their first time. He should beg off now, before both their feelings get hurt, but he can’t bring himself to stop tasting Jim.   
  
And then Jim’s fingers, slick with lube, wrap around his hardening cock, and Leonard bucks forward with a groan.   
  
“If I fall asleep,” gasps Leonard, squirming, “please don’t get offended. I’ve been awake for 36 hours.”  
  
“I don’t think you will,” says Jim, his fingers migrating south, stroking his balls, stopping briefly at the soft skin of his perineum, before the pad of his thumb dips further down and rubs in concentric circles over the tight pucker of Leonard’s hole. He grunts, hips grinding in tiny thrusts in an effort to get closer. “If you do, I’m obviously doing something wrong. And I’m never wrong.”  
  
Leonard makes an impatient sound, but Jim just hushes him, pushing one finger inside Leonard slowly.   
  
“Is this what you want?” murmurs Jim. “Bones, do you want me to fuck you?”  
  
Leonard’s mouth falls open as Jim twists his finger, crooks it at the second knuckle, and strokes his prostate.   
  
“I didn’t hear you,” teases Jim, carefully working his finger deeper. “More?”  
  
“Uh,” says Leonard, panting. Forming words and arranging them in sentences is momentarily beyond him. He nods frantically and presses hot, demanding kisses to Jim’s jaw and throat.   
  
The sting of being stretched open more than he’s accustomed is almost as good as the nerve-bright flashes of arousal that surge through him with every brush of Jim’s finger against his prostate. He uses fingers on himself when he’s jerking off almost like a special treat, every once in a while and never too often to get used to the fullness of feeling, because that’s the bit of it he likes best, the blunt stretch and edge of overwhelming sensation. It’s been a while, though, and when Jim adds a second finger he whines, high and desperate, rocking his hips down eagerly.   
  
“Jim,” rasps Leonard. “Gonna kill me like this, just hurry up and—”  
  
“No,” says Jim firmly. “You take it to so well, fuck, I just want to watch you. Look at you, Bones.”   
  
Jim  _is_ looking at him, lips pursed in concentration, eyes wide and intent, so fucking blue Leonard could fall into them and drown, so Leonard looks back for a while before the scrutiny embarrasses him and he buries his hot face against Jim’s shoulder, moaning helplessly as Jim works him steadily open, two fingers sliding in and out, twisting and stroking.   
  
The bastard, Leonard realises as his breathing quickens and his skin flushes all over and his stomach clenches, the bastard is trying to get him to come.   
  
“What are you—” he gasps, hitching his leg up higher, opening himself up more deeply. “Jim, I’m gonna—”  
  
Then Jim’s other hand grips his cock tightly and strokes from base to tip and Leonard comes with a strangled cry.   
  
“Don’t move,” says Jim softly. He pats Leonard’s hip and starts wriggling around like he’s got itching powder in his boxers; Leonard can’t tell what the fuck he’s doing because his eyes are closed as he comes down from his orgasm, limbs too heavy to bother coordinating movement, satisfied weariness falling over him like a blanket.   
  
“Can’t,” mutters Leonard sleepily. “If you’re still planning on fucking me, better make it quick.”  
  
Jim’s body slides closer, their abdomens press together, and then Jim’s cock bumps against his over-sensitized perineum and nudges down the slick crease of his ass before it comes to rest against his still-clenching hole.   
  
“Jim,” says Leonard, tensing. He forces himself to open his eyes, comes within two inches of Jim’s smiling mouth and the neat nub of his nose. “Are you—”  
  
“I just put on a condom,” murmurs Jim, kissing the corner of Leonard’s mouth.  
  
Leonard lets out a breath. “Well? Go on and fuck me, then, before I pass out from goddamn exhaustion.”  
  
Jim is...bigger than two of his fingers, and the slow glide of Jim’s cock inside him drives the breath right out of Leonard’s lungs, centering his focus on the sweet ache of being filled, the exquisite pleasure of the repeated burn and stretch as Leonard bears down on Jim.   
  
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck fuck  _fuck_.”  
  
“Still gonna fall asleep?” asks Jim with a grin, his cheeks flushed ruddy, mouth swollen from kisses. His voice sounds strained as pauses for a moment, sunk deeply into Leonard, hot and hard and thrilling.   
  
“Shut up,” groans Leonard. Jim’s balls-deep in him. “Put out or shut up.”  
  
Neither of them is in the mood for anything hard or fast. Jim rocks into him with slow, leisurely thrusts of his hips, slowly but surely working Leonard back into a state of arousal until his cock is hard again and he’s reduced to trembling in Jim’s arms from a whirlwind mix of unmitigated pleasure and sheer fatigue.   
  
Jim’s breath is ragged in his ear, his grip on Leonard tight and possessive, molding their bodies together as he works them both into completion.   
  
When Leonard comes for the second time, it’s to Jim kissing him, hot and wet, and Jim follows on a crest of releasing tension, groaning low into Leonard’s mouth when he finally climaxes, wiry limbs wrapped tight around Leonard’s body.   
  
“Now you can go to sleep,” Jim whispers, voice shaky. He pets Leonard’s hair, grinning at him delightedly, and presses another slick kiss to his cheek.  
  
“You’re staying, right?” asks Leonard muzzily. He wraps his fingers around Jim’s wrist, lightly restraining, and Jim chuckles softly.  
  
“If you want. I have to get up early, though. I might be gone when you wake up.”  
  
“It’s okay,” mumbles Leonard, his eyelashes fluttering dangerously.   
  
“Yeah, sure,” says Jim. Leonard’s eyes droop closed, and then the soft brush of fingertips thread through his bangs, pushing them away from his face.   
  
Right before Leonard drifts off, he swears he hears Jim murmur, “Anything, Bones. Anything.”  


oOo

  
  
Jim is gone when Leonard wakes up, but in his wake he’s left a percolating pot of coffee judging by the godly scent floating into the bedroom, as well as Leonard’s crutches stacked neatly by the bed where he can reach them, and a little note on his vacated pillow.   


_Bones—_   
  
_Had to get to work. I’ll call you? I’m kind of busy this weekend, my brother is having a barbecue. Wanna come?_   
  
_JT._

  
  
Oh, shit.  


oOo

  
  
“I’ve got a thing,” says Leonard, grimacing at his own dickish ineptitude. “This weekend. Like, a previous engagement. I can’t come with you. Sorry, kid.”  
  
Leonard does not have a thing. Leonard has got exactly zero things planned this weekend. Any potential things would have involved Jim. In fact, Jim is the only extracurricular thing in Leonard’s life at all right now.   
  
“Oh,” says Jim. He’s valiantly trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but disappointment is an emotion that Leonard has grown very used to hearing in his chosen profession. It’s layered into Jim’s half-cheerful acceptance, silent and unavoidable and riddled with traps. “That’s okay. I... Sam and Aurelan really wanted to meet you. But maybe another time.”  
  
For a moment, Leonard’s head spins like he’s just stumbled off an amusement park ride he didn’t particularly want to go on in the first place. Which is basically  _all_ amusement park rides, if he’s being honest. Leonard hates amusement parks. Hell, Leonard kind of hates fun altogether, sometimes.   
  
 _Jesus, okay, that’s one hell of a tangent, Leonard. Get your head out of your ass and concentrate._  
  
The one relevant piece of information in this conversation is this: Jim has told his brother about him. Jim has told his brother enough about him that he wants to  _meet_ Leonard. That implies some level of commitment, right? Telling your family about someone you’re dating?   
  
Oh god.  
  
Leonard hasn’t told his mother yet. Leonard hasn’t told anyone about Jim that didn’t know already. Has he fallen behind, here? Jim and Leonard aren’t on par, anymore, if Jim has told Sam about him. Jim is blazing ahead in the relationship olympics, while Leonard’s basically just been floating through the last few weeks like he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop right on his head. He hasn’t even considered calling his mother and talking about his brand new love-life yet. What if he does and then they break up two days later and he has to make another call just to humiliate himself further by saying, oh, right, that thing we talked about? That fell through.   
  
Feeling panicked and helpless, Leonard realises distantly that he hasn’t spoken in a really long time.   
  
“Are you still there?” asks Jim anxiously, right on cue. “I didn’t hear you hang up, but you’re disturbingly quiet. Oh god, have you passed out? Bones?”  
  
“Sorry,” says Leonard hurriedly. “I was... just trying to work out a better time to meet your family. Mental scheduling.”  
  
 _What a fucking_ lie _, McCoy. You lying liar. Way to lie right to Jim’s face! Or ear. Whatever._  
  
For what is probably the thousandth time in the last month, Leonard feels like he is steadily losing his already-tenuous grasp on sanity.   
  
“Oh,” says Jim, sounding happier than he did two minutes ago. “Well, okay, then. Let me know when you’re free and we can arrange something else. But if your...thing happens to fall through, I’ll text you Sam’s address, okay? I’ll be there all day if you need me.”  
  
Bless Jim. Bless him so fucking much. He is way too perfect for Leonard.   
  
“Great,” says Leonard, relieved. “I’m going to hang up now, kid. I need several drinks, probably all at the same time.” He softens his voice to demonstrate the affection he’s actually feeling. “Talk to you soon, Jimmy.”  
  
Leonard can hear the smile in Jim’s voice when he replies, “Okay, Bones.” There’s the briefest of pauses, and then Jim quickly adds, “Love you.”  
  
Oh god. What?  _What?_  
  
The line goes abruptly dead before Leonard can even begin to comprehend the enormity of the clusterfuck that currently comprises his life.   
  
“Don’t even talk to me about life,” says Leonard to the empty air. “Do I give a fuck? Do I give  _any_ fucks? Just look at all the fucks I give!”  
  
Sometimes, Leonard wishes he had a cat, so at least when he went crazy and rambled like this about all the things which confuse him to the point of bewildered vocal outrage, there would at least be a living being in the room to which he could direct his ire.   
  
“No fucks given,” mutters Leonard, tipping himself backward onto the sofa.  
  
He ends up hitting his head on the anatomy textbook he left under one of the cushions, which doesn’t surprise him in the least.   


oOo

  
  
“He ended a call with ‘love you’,” says Leonard anxiously. “I’ve been trying to pretend all day like it’s not a big deal, but it’s the first time he’s said it, and that’s a big deal, right? I haven’t done this for a while but I seem to recall exchanges of the words ‘love’ and ‘you’ are a pretty big deal.”  
  
Hikaru blinks at Leonard over the sandwich he’s holding near his face, having paused in taking a bite.   
  
“Hello to you, too, Len,” says Hikaru. He contemplates his sandwich and then sighs and sets it down. “To be completely honest, I don’t particularly want to have this conversation with you.”  
  
Leonard tips his head forward onto his folded arms. “I wouldn’t want to have this conversation with me either.”  
  
“Glad we’re in agreement, then,” says Hikaru. Leonard hears him start chewing.  
  
“He wants me to meet his family tomorrow,” continues Leonard, helpless to stop the words from tumbling out.  
  
“So we  _are_ still talking about this,” mumbles Hikaru through a mouthful of food. “I have not mentally prepared myself for your hysterical grasp on human relationships today. How can you be so competent in some ways and yet so inept in others? You were  _married_.”  
  
“And now I’m divorced,” snaps Leonard. “Doesn’t that answer your question?” He lifts his head back up to glare at Hikaru.  
  
“Yeah, kind of,” shrugs Hikaru. “Want a potato chip?”  
  
Leonard scowls. “No. Those are All Dressed. There is no bigger crime against nature.”  
  
Hikaru shrugs. “I would say cow’s tongue tops All Dressed chips.”  
  
“And you’d be wrong,” retorts Leonard. “What do I do?”  
  
“I’m going to assume you mean about Jim, rather than the problem of potato chips,” says Hikaru.  
  
“You assume correctly,” grouses Leonard, propping up his chin on his arms.  
  
“I remember when you used to stubbornly refuse to even acknowledge that you had real emotions, even though it was patently obvious to anyone who was even remotely aware of your existence that you have an excess of them,” says Hikaru wistfully. “Those were good times.”  
  
“I just have so many feelings,” Leonard says flatly. “Also, I hate you. Can you see it on my face? Am I being patently obvious?”  
  
“It’s more like an emanating miasma of dislike,” Hikaru responds cheerfully. He crams a handful of chips into his mouth. Hikaru eats constantly and still complains of hunger. It’s an ongoing anomaly. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”  
  
“Having friends is worse than not having them,” mutters Leonard bitterly. “At least when I’m lonely and bereft of company, I’m the only one expounding upon my endless flaws.”  
  
“We put a different spin on them,” shrugs Hikaru.   
  
“What are we talking about?” asks Gaila, flopping down into a chair next to Leonard, setting down her lunch tray. She directs this question at Hikaru, apparently convinced she will get a better answer from him rather than Leonard. She’s probably right.   
  
“Len’s complete inability to process anything that has to do with a romantic relationship,” replies Hikaru immediately. He picks up his pudding cup and ignores the look of disgust Leonard shoots his way.   
  
“Jim said he loved me,” Leonard adds miserably. “I’m doomed.”  
  
“You’re definitely dramatic,” says Gaila. “Did you say it back?”  
  
“He hung up on me before I could even consider it,” says Leonard. “I am going to screw everything up. I know it. I probably won’t even notice I have systematically destroyed whatever chemistry we had until one day, I’ll realise that all we talk about is the weather and traffic, and we never have sex anymore because we’re just always too tired to bother, and there is massive continental drift between us.”  
  
There’s a moment of severely awkward silence.   
  
“Isn’t that what happened with you and your ex-wife?” asks Hikaru.   
  
Leonard flushes bright red and Gaila smacks Hikaru around the back of the head.   
  
“I’m going to go throw up,” says Leonard, pushing his chair back and grabbing his crutches. “If I don’t show up before the end of my break, I’ve fallen and drowned in the toilet.”  
  
He manages to stalk off with a little bit of dignity.   
  
“What?” he can hear Hikaru protesting as Gaila chides him. “I was being honest!”  
  
The awful thing is that Hikaru is completely accurate.  
  
Leonard is tempted to abandon his entire life and restart in Alaska. They must need doctors up there.  


oOo

  
  
Leonard begins to feel terrible about lying to Jim about thirty seconds after he wakes up on the day of the barbecue.   
  
He makes it two more hours before he changes his mind and decides to go. What does he really have to lose?  
  
“Jim, you idiot,” he says to himself as he sits down on the carpet and digs through the laundry hamper, trying to find his phone. It is in the pocket of one of his sixty billion pairs of scrubs, and it holds the key to success; the address to Jim’s brother’s house is there, in text form, and he needs it.   
  
One hour later, he has torn apart his entire apartment.   
  
His phone hasn’t made an appearance, though he has unearthed a David Bowie record from under his couch and an ancient University of Mississippi t-shirt in the back of his closet, but Leonard is not panicking. Leonard is just having a breakdown. Is this a sign? Should he get online and book plane tickets to Alaska?  
  
He begins to regret not having a landline. If he did, he could call his wayward cell.   
  
Except he doesn’t know his own number. He knows Christine’s, though, and  _she_  could call his cell for him.   
  
Working this out in his head doesn’t bring him any closer to finding his phone, because he  _still_   _doesn’t have a landline_.   
  
Eventually the phone is revealed to have fallen between his bedside table and the mattress, probably shoved there sleepily this morning when his alarm went off and Leonard realised it was Saturday and he wasn’t on the schedule for work and why the fuck was he awake?   
  
Directions achieved and archived safely on a piece of paper, he turns to the task of dressing himself, finding a nice shirt without too many wrinkles and a pair of clean jeans.   
  
By the time he’s actually ready to vacate the house, it’s nearly four in the afternoon, and the barbecue has been going for hours.   
  
Leonard calls a cab and tries not to vomit all over his own shoes when he finally finds himself standing on the doorstep of a small, neat house in the Outer Sunset District.   
  
He hasn’t bothered texting Jim to let him know he’s decided to show up, partly because he wants it to be some manner of surprise, but also because he’s almost turned back home twice, and reneging on plans more than once is kind of a dick move.   
  
The door opens, making Leonard wonder when he managed to muster the courage to ring the bell, revealing a man that is immediately identifiable as a Kirk. Beyond the mussed mop of sun-bleached sandy blond hair and strong jaw, Sam Kirk has laugh lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and when he spots the fact that Leonard is leaning on a pair of crutches, his face breaks into a wide smile that Leonard has seen mirrored on Jim’s face countless times.   
  
“Let me guess,” says Sam, before Leonard can explain himself. “Are you Leonard?”  
  
Leonard blinks at him. “It’s that obvious?” he says.   
  
“The crutches kind of give it away,” says Sam, holding the door open for him.   
  
They shake hands when Leonard is inside, and Sam has a strong, firm grip. His eyes are brown, not blue like Jim’s, and appraising as he looks Leonard up and down. All of a sudden, Leonard’s stomach is seized by anxiety, his palms going cold and clammy, wondering if he’s being weighed and measured and found wanting.   
  
“Sorry I’m so late,” murmurs Leonard, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I—”  
  
“—Had a thing,” interrupts Sam, sounding amused. “Jim said. He was pretty bummed out that you couldn’t make it, so this should make his day.”  
  
Leonard can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks and knows instinctively that Sam is seeing right through him. Their eyes meet, and although that warmth is still there in Sam’s face, he thinks he can detect a certain amount of wary suspicion in his expression; it’s more clear in the way Sam has straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest.   
  
“Thought I’d surprise him,” says Leonard, hunching his shoulders. “Hope it’s not too much trouble, Mr. Kirk.”  
  
Sam barks out a laugh. “Oh god, call me Sam. My dad was Mr. Kirk. C’mon, Leonard, everyone is out back. We’ll get you a drink and a burger.”  
  
Leonard’s stomach goes wibbly and cold at the prospect of meeting more people, but he reminds himself that Jim is out there, and everything will be fine. He follows numbly after Sam, trying to ignore the sinking feeling of dread.   
  
They’ve just cleared the sliding back door when Leonard hears Jim call, “BONES!” across the yard.   
  
It’s a jolt to his system, dragging him out of the misery he’s been constructing for himself, and he can’t help looking up and meeting Jim’s wide smile with one of equal joy. Jim jogs up to him and pull him into a happy hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek.   
  
“Hey, Jim,” he says.   
  
“I didn’t think you were coming,” says Jim, eyes bright, eyes crinkling at the corners just like his older brother’s. “This is great. You met Sam, then?”  
  
Sam wanders up alongside Leonard. “Guilty,” says Sam. “What’ll you have, Leonard? I’ll grab you something from the cooler.”  
  
“Uh,” says Leonard. “Oh, anything. A coke, if you’ve got one.”  
  
“Coming right up,” says Sam, and wanders away again.  
  
Jim is still smiling. He pulls Leonard into another hug, and Leonard closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing him in.   
  
Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea.   


oOo

  
  
By the time Leonard arrives, most of the Kirk’s other guests have filtered out, so it ends up just being Jim, Leonard, Sam, and Sam’s wife Aurelan at one of the picnic tables, Leonard eating a hamburger, as promised, while Jim piles ice cream into his bowl and Sam and Aurelan pick at leftovers with the manner of people that are incredibly full but just can’t seem to stop eating because there is still food within reach.   
  
Leonard also briefly meets Jim’s nieces, Alice and Holly; Alice has a cloud of pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and acres of freckles, while Holly looks more like Aurelan, brown-haired, brown-eyed, with creamy tanned skin.   
  
They crawl all over Jim, greet Leonard shyly, and then chase each other, shrieking, toward the slide that stands at the back of the yard.   
  
Aurelan hollers, “Alice, let go of your sister’s hair!” as they run, and then flashes Leonard a small smile. She’s a striking woman, with large, dark eyes and a tumble of long brown hair, and though it’s Holly that takes after her most, Alice is the one that has inherited the freckles spread across her nose and cheeks. “So, Leonard, when do you get free of that cast?”  
  
“Three more weeks,” sighs Leonard. “I get rid of the crutches day after tomorrow, though. I’m going in to have this plaster monstrosity sawed off and replaced with a walking cast.”  
  
“That must be a relief,” agrees Aurelan.   
  
“Jim says you aren’t very good with the crutches,” puts in Sam helpfully.  
  
Leonard shoots Jim a mutinous expression. “Jim ought to watch his mouth.”  
  
Jim shrugs theatrically. “Hey, you’re the one that keeps trying to talk with your hands and ends up dropping your crutches all over the damn place. I’m just reporting the facts.”  
  
“You’re ridiculous,” sighs Leonard. “Sam, Jim said he broke his leg, once. How was he with crutches?”  
  
Sam snorts loudly. “It was a battle to get him to even use them. I’m still amazed his leg ever healed, the amount of times he fell over on his ass.”  
  
“You shut up,” says Jim, pointing at Sam. “You shut your stupid mouth and stop telling lies. Bones, he is full of shit, I am totally a graceful gazelle.”  
  
“Jim,” cuts in Aurelan, “has broken practically everything in our house. We don’t need to house-proof our things for the girls, but we do need to consider whether Jim will somehow manage to break something we’ve just bought.”  
  
“Hey, that vase was a total accident,” protests Jim, his voice edging dangerously on becoming a whine. “And that television was precariously balanced!”  
  
“Frisbee,” says Sam flatly, “Is not an indoor game.”  
  
Leonard snorts into his glass of coke, and Sam reaches across to slap him on the back as Leonard descends into a helpless coughing fit. “You’re ridiculous,” he wheezes. He turns to Aurelan and Sam and points at Jim. “He’s ridiculous!”  
  
“You love me,” says Jim casually, shoving an entire roll into his mouth.   
  
Leonard chokes again, bubbles going straight up his nose, and this time his cheeks start burning.   
  
“Jimmy, come help me bring these dishes in,” says Aurelan suddenly.   
  
Jim chews and swallows, his eyes flickering between Sam and Leonard. “Okay,” he says, sliding off the bench of the picnic table. He pats Leonard on the shoulder and gives Sam a sharp look before he follows Aurelan, saying, “I said I’d get you another TV, and I’m a man of my word, Aurelan.”  
  
Leonard coughs weakly into his fist, chancing a look across the table at Sam. The other man is watching him idly, sipping from the bottle of beer at his elbow. “It’s good you could come,” says Sam, his gaze drifting to where the girls are now challenging each other to dizzy somersaults on the grass. “Jim talks about you non-stop. Glad your...thing didn’t get in the way.”  
  
“Me too,” says Leonard faintly. “Jim’s... Jim’s been great. I really care about him.”  
  
Sam’s eyes slide back to Leonard, and for a moment, Leonard feels like a bug under a microscope. Eventually, Sam’s shoulders relax a little, and his mouth softens at the corners. “I don’t think I really need to say this, Leonard, but Jim is my baby brother, and he’s important to me. I know it seems like nothing can touch him, but he’s just like anyone else. That swagger of his can fool you into thinking he doesn’t get insecure or hurt, you know?”  
  
Leonard just nods, absolutely at a loss for words.  
  
“So, I won’t do the usual big brother thing and threaten you with bodily harm if you hurt him,” Sam says cheerfully. “But I will say this: you’re not the only one with issues, Leonard. Yours are just on the surface.”  
  
“I would never knowingly hurt Jim,” says Leonard quietly, picking at the label on one of the empty beer bottles on the table. “I know that I can be a bit of a mess.” He pauses. “You and I both know I didn’t have any plans today and I was just shit-scared of making the Meeting the Family step.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Sam, and his voice sounds warm enough that Leonard chances meeting his eyes again. “I’m not sure if Jim knows, exactly, but I figured it was something like that.”  
  
“You don’t hate me, do you?” asks Leonard. “My ex-wife’s mother hated me. Made for awkward Christmas dinners.”  
  
“We’re Jewish,” says Sam, winking.  
  
Leonard laughs, something in his chest easing a little. “Noted.”  
  
“Don’t think I hate you, though,” Sam shrugs. “Jim likes you. Household destruction aside, he’s got decent judgment.”  
  
“He took a man on crutches to the beach,” says Leonard, raising both eyebrows.   
  
Sam snorts. “He’s a romantic.”  
  
Leonard’s lips quirk into a smile. “Sure is.”  


oOo

  
  
“I’m relieved to see Sam didn’t eat your face,” Jim says later, when Sam has left the table to go play climbing frame for two little girls. He flops into the seat Sam vacated and smiles at him. Leonard’s heart does that same little wobble it always does when confronted with how painfully gorgeous Jim is.   
  
“I was married,” Leonard says hurriedly.  
  
Jim blinks at him. “Huh?”  
  
“For...a while,” continues Leonard, before his nerve can desert him. “Years. To my best friend. Jocelyn. And we grew apart in this awful, silent way that neither of us saw coming, and then we divorced about two years ago. You’re the first person I’ve dated since then.”  
  
Jim’s expression melts into fondness, his shoulders losing tension. “I’m glad you told me.”  
  
“I don’t want to repeat past mistakes,” says Leonard quietly.   
  
Jim reaches across the table and takes Leonard’s hand, squeezing it.   
  
“I, uh,” begins Jim, suddenly looking incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m...pretty sure I’m the reason you broke your leg.”  
  
…Wait, what?  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
Jim blushes an unattractive tomato paste red.  
  
“I hit a pot hole,” says Leonard. “It was my own damn fault for not looking carefully, because—” He trails off, his mouth dropping open slightly. “Because there was a little toy of a car drifting into the bike lane and I was—”  
  
“Cussing me out,” says Jim weakly.   
  
“You better not have been on a cell phone or else we are  _done_  professionally,” says Leonard hotly.  
  
“No!” cries Jim. “God, no! My fucking muffler dropped because I hit a pot hole too and I swerved a little and then suddenly  _you_ were there on your bike directly to right of me and you turned your head to bitch at me and swivelled right into another pot hole. I watched you go right over the handlebars and immediately hit the breaks. I thought you’d broken your neck, I was convinced I’d just  _murdered_ someone!”   
  
They sit there, staring at each other over the picnic table, and then Leonard starts to laugh. Deep, helpless belly-laughs, wrenched out of him so violently that tears start to roll down his cheeks. He puts his head down on the table and sobs in complete and utter hysterics.   
  
“Then I realised you were alive and really hot to boot,” continues Jim, unrepentantly matter-of-fact.   
  
“You little shit,” weeps Leonard, hiccupping and wiping at his eyes. “You swept in and played knight in shining armour.”  
  
“Bones,” says Jim emphatically. “You’re  _really hot_.”  
  
“So dreamy,” pitches in Sam, appearing alongside the table with a girl hanging from either arm. “Those generous pouty lips! Those eyelashes!”  
  
Jim flushes again, eyes widening, and glances in panic at Leonard and then back to Sam. “If you weren’t currently wearing two small children as a human shield, I would be wrestling you to the ground and punching you right in the traitorous mouth.”  
  
Leonard’s lips quirk in a grin. “What’s so great about my eyelashes, Jim?”  
  
“Aarrrgh,” groans Jim, putting his head down on the table.   
  
“Uncle Jim,” says Alice, climbing down off her father and scaling Jim instead. “Uncle Jim! Guess what?”  
  
“What?” mutters Jim, voice muffled.   
  
“I’ve got a present for you,” announces Alice. Then she sticks one filthy finger in her mouth, gets it good and wet, and jams it into Jim’s ear.   
  
Jim’s shriek is effectively drowned out by Sam and Leonard roaring with laughter.   


oOo

  
  
After the barbecue, Jim takes Leonard home and fucks him.   
  
There’s a lot of furious kissing in between, beginning as soon as they get inside, and Jim slams him against the door so hard his crutches clatter to the floor and Jim is the only thing keeping him upright. Leonard doesn’t exactly mind—actually finds Jim’s hands strong and steady on his hips incredibly fucking hot—and from there it’s just a single-minded quest to get his tongue as deep into Jim’s mouth as possible.   
  
Then Jim nips at his lower lip, tugs it out with his teeth and kisses him wet and sloppy on the corner of his mouth, and murmurs, “Bed, now.”  
  
Leonard groans in frustration. “Crutches first,” he hisses back. “Pick ‘em up and I can—”  
  
“Fuck the fucking crutches,” Jim says impatiently. “I’m going to pick you up, now.”  
  
“What—”  
  
There’s a bit of a lurch in his spatial awareness as Jim bends at the waist and wraps his arms around Leonard, heaving him up, and then Leonard is abruptly dangling over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry as Jim heads toward the bedroom.   
  
“YOU ARE GOING TO KILL US BOTH,” yells Leonard, clutching at Jim’s shirt with one hand and pounding him in the back with the other, dizzily watching his apartment bounce past him upside down. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”  
  
“I need to be in you  _now_ , not later,” says Jim, stopping at the foot of Leonard’s bed and gripping him by the hips before kneeling to sit him down on the edge of the mattress. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of your broken limb, I promise I won’t do it again.”  
  
Leonard splutters, glaring at Jim from between his legs, his fingers settling tightly on Jim’s shoulders. “I think you owe me a blowjob for that massive loss of dignity,” he says crabbily.   
  
“I think you might be right,” Jim replies. His hands span Leonard’s thighs, splaying out as he pushes them apart.   
  
“Good,” huffs Leonard. “ _Then_  you can fuck me.”  
  
“I will,” says Jim emphatically, undoing Leonard’s pants.   
  
He does.  


oOo

  
  
On Monday, Leonard sits on a bed in the hospital clinic while Geoff wields the tiny electric saw that is going to free him from his plaster prison.   
  
“I don’t trust you,” says Leonard, wrinkling his nose. “Have you even done this before?”  
  
“The last time I removed a cast for someone was about ten years ago,” Geoff muses. “But I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.”  
  
“Christine can do it,” protests Leonard.   
  
“Christine is busy,” calls Christine as she passes by the open doorway with her freakish preternatural timing.   
  
“Christine is a terrible friend!” shouts Leonard.   
  
“Leonard needs to shut up now,” says Geoff, frowning at him.   
  
Just to be petulant, Leonard closes his eyes when Geoff finally starts cutting into the cast. “You realise I’m taking time out of my actual schedule to do this for you,” Geoff says.   
  
“Less talking,” Leonard mutters through gritted teeth, “And more concentrating on the blade that is currently millimetres from my leg.”  
  
“I’ll be sad to see the doodles go,” sighs Geoff.   
  
So will Leonard, to be honest. Mostly he’ll be sad to know that Jim’s phone number isn’t still there on his leg, just in case Leonard needs it.   
  
The saw switches off, and Leonard cautiously opens his eyes.   
  
“Oh, god,” he says.   
  
“Mmm, dead skin,” says Geoff, patting Leonard on the shoulder. “Let’s get that washed up. Then we’ll roll you down to radiology and get an x-ray before we fit the walking cast.”  
  
“Goody,” sighs Leonard.   


oOo

  
  
Leonard falls on his ass three times before he even makes it outside the hospital. Turns out the term ‘walking cast’ is categorically misleading and he might hate the damn thing even more than the plaster cast.   
  
He’s spent three weeks redistributing his weight between one healthy leg and two crutches, only to suddenly be plunked back on two legs and  _no_ crutches, except one leg is still broken and now swathed in a heavy fucking plastic boot. By the time he reaches the parking lot, he’s hit on a kind of waddling step that has him swivelling his hips like an Olympic speed walker.   
  
He very briefly considers getting his crutches back, but he’s not in any pain, and Geoff had recommended he start walking on the leg as soon as possible. Plus, he is so fucking sick of sore armpits he could _scream_. Leonard calls a cab, and once he’s safely in the back seat, he texts Jim, feeling uncharacteristically giddy.  
  
 _I’m successfully crutch-less and have mostly regained mobility. Want to come over tonight?_  
  
Jim never texts him back.  


oOo

  
  
Leonard tries not to freak out.   
  
He tries really, really, really pathetically hard not to freak out. For the most part, he succeeds, in that, all his panicking is done internally, where the constant soundtrack inside his head consists of  _Jim has not replied to any of my texts and his phone goes to voicemail and oh god oh god he hates me something has gone horribly wrong what is happening_ and every possible variation thereof repeated  _ad nauseam_.   
  
It’s just that it’s been an entire night and day and Leonard doesn’t think Jim has ever taken more than five minutes to reply to one of his texts.   
  
Leonard wonders, miserably, if he’s been dumped.   
  
He’s lying morosely on his back in the middle of his living room floor with an arm over his eyes, overcome with despair, when his phone finally rings.   
  
The screen reads _Dat Ass calling_  which is what happened after Jim got his hands on Leonard’s cell, and Leonard fumbles so hard to accept the call that he bounces the phone off the floor first.   
  
“Jim?” he says breathlessly.   
  
“Leonard, it’s Sam.”  
  
Leonard’s stomach drops right through the fucking floor and his entire world narrows to a pinprick.   
  
“Sam,” Leonard manages to say evenly, even though his hands are trembling, “Where’s Jim? Why are you calling me from his phone? Did something...did something  _happen_?”  
  
“Relax,” Sam says soothingly. “Leonard, Jim’s fine, he’s at my place.” He pauses awkwardly for a moment, lowering his voice when he continues, “You need to come see him. I really think he needs you but he’s being an idiot. Can you come over?”  
  
Leonard feels like his heart is about ten seconds away from imminent implosion. He lets out a deep, ragged sigh and covers his face with a clammy hand. “I’ll be right there. And once I figure out the fuck is going on, I’m kicking both your asses for scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.”  
  
Sam barks a rough laugh. “Noted.”  


oOo

  
  
“He’s up in the attic,” Sam says apologetically when he lets Leonard in.   
  
Leonard pulls a face. “Well, suppose there’s no place better than to relearn how to walk on two legs than on the fucking  _stairs_.”   
  
“I told him you were on your way and he refused to come down,” Sam says, leading Leonard to the attic staircase. “He thinks you won’t come up after him and that way he doesn’t have to face you.”  
  
“Sam—”  
  
“He lost his job yesterday,” Sam interjects quietly. “He’s been too embarrassed to tell you.”  
  
Leonard sighs. “Definitely kicking both your asses,” he mutters, as he begins to climb the stairs.   
  
The door at the top opens into a dim, dusty, loft space with a slanted roof and wonky round windows, peering out from the top of the house like shy ship portholes.   
  
Leonard takes one awkward step into the attic and then sneezes so hard he knocks himself right onto his ass.   
  
“Sam?” calls Jim’s voice. “I said I didn’t want dinner. Go away. I’ll come down later.”  
  
“I can’t believe I climbed those stairs for you,” mutters Leonard, grabbing the nearest piece of furniture and dragging himself back to his feet. “You owe me so many blowjobs. I’ll expect a coupon book that I can redeem for sexual acts.”  
  
There’s a shocked pause.   
  
“Bones?” Jim rises from the other end of the attic space and steps into the spotlight of late afternoon sunshine spilling in from the window. He looks dusty and tired and there’s a downward tug to his mouth.  
  
“If you thought Sam would ever say that to you, I’d be profoundly disturbed,” retorts Leonard. Jim doesn’t move any closer, so Leonard thumps across the floor to where Jim is standing and glowers at him for a moment, before he pulls him into a firm hug. For about the first minute of active hugging, it definitely falls into the top ten most awkward embraces Leonard has experienced in his entire life. Jim is stiff as a board against him, and his arms remain at his sides. Then he exhales and melts against Leonard, his arms coming up to wrap tightly around him.   
  
“Bones,” sighs Jim, burying his face against Leonard’s shoulder and giving him a warm squeeze. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Shut up,” mutters Leonard. “Nothing to apologise for.”  
  
“I got let go,” whispers Jim.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“They’re downsizing. I’ve been at that firm for three years. I knew I wasn’t going to stay forever, but...”  
  
Leonard kisses his hair. “I know. What are you doing up here?”  
  
“Looking at old photos,” mumbles Jim. “Maudlin, right?”  
  
“Show me?” suggests Leonard.   
  
That’s how they end up sitting on the floor amongst all the boxes, Jim digging through photo albums and yearbooks.   
  
Leonard is amusing himself with a stack of photos that feature Jim and Sam as small boys with identical flaxen hair and wide grins, when he finds an old, crinkled photo of a man he doesn’t recognize. He’s obviously a Kirk, tall, with wheat-coloured hair and the same blue eyes as Jim, crinkled at the corners like Jim and Sam both. Leonard falters.   
  
“Is this your daddy?” he finally asks, showing it to Jim. Jim has never mentioned his father, only a mother in Iowa and Sam and Aurelan and the girls.  
  
Jim’s mouth spreads into a sad, wistful little smile. “Yeah. George Kirk. Sam’s named after him. George Samuel Kirk, Jr. He died right before I was born.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Leonard quietly.   
  
Jim shrugs, tugging his knees up to his chest and leaning forward on them, arms curling around his calves. “It’s okay. I feel sad about not knowing him, sometimes, but as far as I’m concerned, my mom and Sam raised me. Protective older brother and father figure all wrapped up in Sam.”  
  
Jim’s gaze falls back into his lap and he turns around the book he’s holding for Leonard to see. “Sam Kirk, most likely to succeed,” he reads, pointing at the yearbook page. “Sometimes you look back at these things and it’s hilarious how none of it comes true, but... not with Sam. He’s an amazing lawyer, he helps people, he’s married, he’s got two gorgeous little girls...”  
  
“Jim,” says Leonard quietly.  
  
“And then there’s me,” says Jim, overriding Leonard. “I started law school because I wanted to be like Sam. I looked up to him so much when I was growing up and I didn’t know what else to do. And then I hated it. So I did a paralegal certification because I needed a job if I wasn’t going to finish law school and thought I’d work for a while until I knew what I wanted, see if law would become appealing. It never did. And now I don’t even have that.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Leonard.  
  
Jim’s shoulders hitch in a shrug. “Embarrassed? You’re a  _doctor_ , Bones.”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot,” scoffs Leonard. “Jim. What do  _you_  want to do?”  
  
Jim’s blue eyes flicker up to meet Leonard’s, and he hesitates before shaking his head. “It’s too late for anything, isn’t it? But I... I want to go back to school. Do another degree.”  
  
“What would you study?”  
  
“Architectural engineering,” Jim says promptly.   
  
“You’ve thought about it,” encourages Leonard.   
  
“But I’ve never told anyone,” says Jim. “You can’t get further away from law than architecture, Bones. I feel... like Sam would be disappointed in me.”  
  
“Bullshit,” snaps Leonard. Jim looks up in surprise, eyebrows rising, eyes wide. “You weren’t ever planning on finishing law school anyway, were you?”  
  
Jim hesitates for a long time and then very slowly shakes his head.  
  
“‘Bout time you figured that out, kiddo,” says Sam.  
  
Leonard and Jim simultaneously turn their heads toward the doorway into the attic. “Whoa,” adds Sam. “That was creepy. Don’t ever do that again.”  
  
“How long have you been standing there?” demands Jim, mouth dropping open.   
  
“About thirty seconds before I opened my mouth,” says Sam defensively. “I ain’t been droppin’ no eaves, sir, honest. I came up to make sure everything was okay and that Leonard hadn’t fallen down the stairs. Oh, and I made mac and cheese if you’re finally hungry.”  
  
Jim sets his jaw, looking away from Sam. “You knew I wasn’t going to finish law school?”  
  
Leonard sees Sam roll his eyes, though Jim doesn’t. “Of course. I’ve never seen you hate something more. You were a great paralegal because you’ve got a mind for details, Jimmy, and a heart for research. But becoming a lawyer? It was never for you.”  
  
“I thought it’s what you wanted,” Jim says weakly.  
  
Sam narrows his eyes. “Why would I want something for you that you didn’t?”  
  
Jim’s throat works. “I think I want to start over. Go back to school, but not for law,” he says softly.  
  
“Atta boy. I’m proud of you, Jim,” says Sam simply, sincerely, before winking at Leonard and turning to go down the stairs. “Now get your asses into the kitchen before the mac and cheese goes all glorpy and dry.”  
  
They both listen to Sam’s footsteps fade from the stairs.   
  
“Hey,” murmurs Leonard, gesturing at Jim. “C’mere.”  
  
When Jim scoots forward, pushing albums aside, Leonard pulls him into a kiss, slow and sweet. He takes his time with it, starting with soft little presses of his mouth against the plushness of Jim’s, teasing him into parting his lips with his tongue until Jim groans and Leonard takes heartfelt advantage, licking into the warmth of his mouth.  
  
It goes on for endless, lazy seconds, until they pull apart and Leonard touches their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Jim huffs out a soft breath and it tickles Leonard’s bangs.  
  
Jim threads his fingers through Leonard’s hair. “Thank you for climbing the stairs for me.”  
  
Leonard snorts. “Remember what I said about all the blowjobs?”  
  
Jim presses a kiss to his cheek. “How could I forget?”  


**one year later**

  
  
“I was there when Jim and Leonard first met,” Gaila is saying, standing at the front of the crowded hall with a glass of champagne in her hand, wrapped up in a rich green dress.   
  
“Some of you might know that Jim accidentally made Leonard crash his bike. Leonard went right over the handlebars and broke his leg and Jim was actually the one to call the ambulance. Leonard was so smitten with him that, under the influence of some very strong pain medication, he rambled lovingly about Jim’s big blue eyes.”  
  
“Oh my god,” mutters Bones, sinking down in his seat next to Jim like he’s trying to unobtrusively melt into the floor. His cheeks have gone a bright adorable blazing red and his eyes are wide and panicked and roving around the room searching for possible exits. “Oh, my god, I hate my friends.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure people will notice if you slide right out of your chair and under the table,” Jim says in an obnoxious stage-whisper. To his right, Sam snickers into his drink. “You are not Alex Mack.”  
  
“I hate you, too,” snarls Bones. “Vicodin-induced conversations should never be held against anyone, goddammit. Especially not at some poor fucker’s own wedding!  _Kill me now_.”  
  
“What, and miss all the hot wedding night sex? You must be dreaming,” scoffs Jim. Reaching out, he snags Leonard’s hand, pulling it into his lap and wrapping it in both of his own. The fist Bones had previously clenched his fingers into relaxes by degrees.  
  
Bones shoots him a side-long glance, his shoulders losing some of his nervous tension. “If I’m dreaming,” he says so quietly Jim almost misses it, “Then I don’t wanna wake up.”  
  
It’s apparently Jim’s turn to abruptly turn red. He coughs discreetly and ducks his head, pulling Bones’s hand out from under the table to press his lips to his palm while Bones stares off at the adjacent wall like he’s carefully examining the floral arrangements that neither of them chose, and they both make an immediate and unspoken mutual decision to ignore the fact that they are completely ridiculous and painfully in love with each other’s everything.   
  
Gaila’s speech ends to a storm of catcalling and applause, and then she’s waving them onto the dance floor. Bones’s face goes faintly horrified. Apparently he’d forgotten about this part of the evening.   
  
Luckily, Jim’s still got the tactical advantage. Bones’s hand is clamped tightly in his own, so when Jim shoves back his chair and stands up, Bones is tugged along with him.   
  
“This is going to end in tragedy, mark my words,” mumbles Bones under his breath.   
  
“That’s what you always say.” Before Bones can formulate another witty rejoinder, Jim employs his fly moves to sweep Bones across the room before reeling him back in for a slow dance shuffle around the edge of the dance floor. Their bodies meet in the middle, Jim wrapping one arm around Bones’s broad shoulders and holding Bones’s hand with the other.   
  
“Hey,” whispers Jim in Bones’s ear and then deposits a kiss there. “Relax, Grumpy Bear. Let the rest of Care-A-Lot have some fun, huh?”  
  
“Stop making references to television,” mumbles Bones, slowly beginning to relax into Jim’s arms. Jim slides his hand down from Bones’s shoulders to the small of his back and guides them both through simple steps, Bones following his lead easily.   
  
“You aren’t half bad,” says Jim.   
  
“Don’t sound so damn surprised,” drawls Bones, his mouth quirking into a grin. “What kind of southern boy do you take me for? I was Tracy Kennedy’s escort for cotillion. You think I don’t know how to waltz?”  
  
“Not gonna lie,” says Jim, nipping at Bones’s earlobe, “I really want to bend you over and fuck you right now.”  
  
“Jim!” hisses Bones, stiffening in his arms. Jim doesn’t even have to look at his face again to know that he’s blushing. “This could not be less appropriate if you  _tried_.”  
  
“It’s our wedding day,” Jim points out, the hand he’s got resting on the small of Bones’s back drifting down even lower to squeeze his ass. “Every single person here knows we’re going to spend the next 48 hours boning.”  
  
The music changes and the rest of their guests filter onto the dance floor, taking some of the scrutiny away from them. As predicted, because Bones is nothing if not self-conscious, Bones relaxes subtly, pressing closer to Jim, their hips aligning.   
  
“Seriously,” murmurs Jim. “That expensive suit? Is going to end up on the floor. I’m going to bend you over the back of the couch before we even make it to the bed, work you open on my fingers until you’re sobbing.”  
  
“Jim,” protests Bones in a strangled little whisper. His hips bump Jim’s and he stifles a groan and that’s when Jim realises Bones is  _hard_.   
  
“Bathroom,” says Jim.  
  
“Down the hall,” moans Bones, and just like with the slow dance, he follows Jim’s lead off the floor and out of the main hall, crowding Jim impatiently through the bathroom doors when they get there.  
  
Jim gets Bones manhandled into one of the stalls and, really, he’d be able to take Bones’s threats a  _lot_  more seriously if he wasn’t  _helping_  Jim undress him at the same time as bitching out, “THIS IS A TERRIBLE IDEA I HATE YOU FOREVER,” but hey, Jim isn’t going to call Bones out when he’s just gotten his boxers and suit pants shoved down around his thighs.   
  
Jim puts his hands on Bones’s hips, nudges to urge him to turn his body around and brace himself on the stall door, and Bones moans and goes obediently with barely any pressure applied.  
  
“Seriously, is this an automatic thing? Can you just not help it?” demands Jim. Bones arches his hips and pushes his ass against Jim’s crotch. “I love you so much right now.”  
  
“So help me,” growls Bones. “If anyone hears us—”  
  
Jim has a solution for that. It involves shoving two of his fingers into Bones’s mouth.   
  
“Hnnghff,” grunts Bones. He shoots Jim a glare over his shoulder and sucks sullenly on his fingers.   
  
Because Jim is a super classy genius that likes to prepare for all sexual possibilities, he’s totally got lube in his pocket.   
  
When Jim presses two slick fingers to the tight heat of Bones’s hole, Bones snaps his head around and he looks down, narrowing lust-blown eyes as he watches Jim’s fingers disappearing into his own body. The expression on his face says  _I can’t believe we just got married while you had a tube of lubricant in your pocket_.  
  
It’s exactly the sort of expression Jim’s come to expect from the contrary motherfucker currently screwing himself onto Jim’s fingers; the same man who started bitching at him before they even knew each other’s names. And when Jim finally shimmies his own pants down and pushes into him, he kind of forgets to breathe for a moment, because this tight heat, the sticky press of their bodies, Bones’s under-his-breath muttering, muffled by Jim’s fingers, is all Jim will ever need.   
  
Afterwards, when they’ve tidied up as best they can and sidled back into the hall practically wearing a neon sign blazing the message  _WE JUST FUCKED IN THE BATHROOM_ , Jim can’t help settling a hand at the nape of Bones’s neck, thumbing at the vivid red hickey he’s left just under his hairline.   
  
He knows that if Bones had any idea it was there Jim would be getting treated to a side of crazy eyes, which is tempting, but he prefers for Bones to remain in blissful ignorance.   
  
“Be right back,” murmurs Bones, heading across the room to where Gaila is sitting.   
  
Jim watches him go, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.  
  
He doesn’t notice Sam sidling up beside him until he’s speaking. “Leonard’s walking gingerly, huh?”  
  
Jim’s mouthful of champagne arcs right out his nose.  
  
“You’re a terrible person,” he wheezes when he can speak, wiping at his burning nose.   
  
“Does it say more about you or me that I’m the terrible person you chose as your best man?” asks Sam cheekily.  
  
Jim huffs and shoves him in the shoulder.  
  
Gaila has coerced Bones into dancing. They’re drifting nearer to Jim and Sam when Jim hears Gaila say, “Ooh, nice hickey, Len,” and Jim has the pleasure of watching Bones’s face turn red for the third time that night.  
  
“I’m going to kill you,” threatens Bones, as they pass by. “And then I’m going to revive you and kill you again.”  
  
“You’re just saying that because you love me!” protests Jim.  
  
“Gaila, honey, ‘scuse me for a moment,” says Bones politely.   
  
“If you must,” sighs Gaila, rolling her eyes. She winks at Jim and swishes away with Sam, leaving the two of them inches away from one another.   
  
“I do, you know,” rumbles Bones, cupping Jim’s face and kissing him, soft, on the mouth.   
  
“What?” murmurs Jim.   
  
“Love you.”  
  
“Oh,” says Jim, “Well. Once you’re partly responsible for a guy’s broken limb, love is never far off. You know how it is. I’ve got this magnetic charm that transcends personal injury.”  
  
Bones rolls his eyes. Then he clears his throat and hesitates for a moment. “Jim? Promise me we’ll never stop talking.”  
  
Jim takes Bones’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “Have you even  _met_ us, Bones?”  
  
Bones chuckles and kisses him again. “Right answer.”


End file.
